


There Is Always the Moon

by firethesound



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemy, Amnesia, Apothecaries, Astronomy, Auror Harry Potter, Banter, Bickering, Blood, Body Horror, Curses, Diagon Alley, Draco Malfoy-centric, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Hoodies, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Gore, Motorcycles, Mugs, Mythology - Freeform, Onomatopoeias, Pining, Potions, Quidditch, Routines and Domesticity, Slow Build, Wingfic, forced bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 159,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/pseuds/firethesound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's life after the war is everything he wanted it to be: it's simple, and quiet, and predictable, and safe. But when a mysterious curse shatters the peace he'd worked so hard to build, there's only one person he can trust to help him. After all, Harry Potter has saved his life before. Now Draco has to believe that Potter will be able to do it one more time. (A remix of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707098">If the Sun Goes Black</a> by <b>pasdexcuses</b>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasdexcuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If the Sun Goes Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707098) by [pasdexcuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses). 



> Well, it certainly takes a village. A big thank you to birdsofshore, catplusfox, dicta_contrion, and eidheann (with a last-minute assist from Tiny Steeb) for all the answered questions, betawork, prereading, comments, encouragement, handholding and buttkicking. Thank you to the mods for their unending patience with me needing so many extensions, and for running such an awesome fest. And a great big thank you to **pasdexcuses** for writing such a fantastic story that drew me in and didn’t want to let me go.
> 
> This story is very much meant to be read as a companion to If the Sun Goes Black.

Draco shifts uncomfortably on the settee and looks from his father to his mother and then to his father again as he waits for them to react. Lucius is staring at him, stunned. Narcissa has frozen with her teacup held halfway between the saucer and her mouth. As he watches, Lucius licks his lips and takes a breath and glances to his wife, and Narcissa slowly sets her cup back in its saucer with only the faintest rattle of fine china.

“Please say something.” Draco doesn’t mean to speak into the tremendous silence spooling out between them, but waiting for his parents to respond is unbearable. He’s been imagining this conversation all week, pursuing each imaginary avenue of conversation, picturing each potential reaction in agonizing detail. He’s been dreading this for so long that, now that it’s finally arrived, he wants nothing more than for it to be over and done with.

He’d come downstairs for afternoon tea knowing that he had to do it today. He’d run out of time to put it off. When they’d all settled down together in the sitting room, he’d intended to do it right away, but Narcissa had begun talking, and then it took a while before a lull in the conversation, and Draco had panicked, 

“Mother, Father. There is something important I wish to discuss with you,” he’d begun. He’d kept his voice a careful balance between serious and earnest, a very good start, and then he’d promptly lost all control of his mouth and blurted out, “I’m moving out of the Manor because the shop I bought on Diagon Alley has a flat above it, and I know why you keep inviting Mrs Greengrass and her daughters round for tea but you really ought to stop that because I don’t anticipate having much in the way of free time once I open my apothecary. And even if I did have the time for it, I’m still not going to marry either of them because I’m very, very gay.”

And then his ears caught up with his mouth and for the long seconds of silence that followed, Draco couldn’t have said which of the three of them was most horrified by his admission.

But it’s all out there and he can’t take it back. And now there are only two ways this can go: either his parents will accept this, or they won’t. And then Draco will know for certain where he stands with them, and he can react accordingly. Knowing will be a relief, and it’s a strange comfort to have the decision for what will happen next taken out of his hands.

Draco swallows against his dry throat and looks from his mother to his father and back again, curls his fingers into his thigh and presses hard. Why did he say anything? He shouldn’t have said anything at all about his preferences. He should have told his parents he was moving to London and left it at that. He’s made it this long without breathing a whisper about how he likes men, and it’s not as if he has anyone special in his life to force the matter. He should have let this sleeping crup lie.

Narcissa exchanges another glance with Lucius as she leans forward to set her cup and saucer on the low table. The quiet click of bone china on mahogany sounds as loud as a banged gavel and twice as final to Draco’s ears, and Draco’s heart stops. Narcissa stands up without a word, her mouth firmed into a determined line, her eyes intense and a little shiny, and Draco knew it, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything because she’s leaving, she’s leaving him—

But she doesn’t. She rounds the coffee table and then she sinks down onto the settee beside him and leans in and puts her arms around him, and suddenly Draco can breathe again. Relief shudders through him, leaves him reeling and desperately grateful. It feels faintly ridiculous, giving in to this childish urge to cling to his mother. But he’d been so afraid that she’d hate him. And perhaps it is babyish for him to be this afraid of his mother’s disappointment when he’s nearly twenty, but the War put things in perspective for him. It nearly cost him everything he held dear: his wealth, his status, his family. In the aftermath of it all, he’d realised which of those truly mattered.

“You are my son, Draco,” Narcissa says gently after a few long moments. “There is nothing more to be said than that.”

“Thank you,” he tries to say, but his throat is tight and the words come with no sound. He tries again, licks his lips and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Hush,” Narcissa says, her hand rubbing soothing circles against his back. “You don’t owe me any thanks.”

Lucius still hasn’t spoken, and when Narcissa releases Draco a few moments later and he sits back, he can’t bring himself to look up right away. It takes two deep breaths and a handful of heartbeats before he can make himself raise his chin and meet his father’s eyes.

Lucius is sitting still as a statue, his face as calm and blank as a mask. Draco’s stomach twists and he’s five years old again, caught playing Quidditch in the house with the smashed remains of an Etruscan vase bearing silent witness at his feet. His father always wore that blank-mask look before he gave Draco his punishment, and the only difference this time is that Draco’s incriminated himself.

Lucius stands up and comes to a stop beside Draco and claps a heavy hand to Draco’s shoulder. “We have been through a war,” he says at last. “And I have never in my life known true fear until I knew that of a father who sees his son in imminent danger and is helpless to save him.” He curls his fingers into Draco’s shoulder, the pressure firm and comforting. “We have not come through that only for me to lose you over something this inconsequential. Draco,” Lucius waits until Draco looks up at him before finishing, “I will never do anything to force you away.”

It’s not quite the open-armed acceptance of his mother, but from his father it’s more than Draco had let himself believe he might have.

Lucius nods to him, and sweeps from the room. Narcissa watches him go, then reclaims her teacup and saucer with a murmured _Wingardium Leviosa_. She takes a sip and says to Draco, “The Greengrasses have invited us for dinner next week. I imagine your father’s gone to send them our regrets.”

Draco leans forward and takes up his own teacup, more for something to do with his hands than any desire for tea. It’s a comfort to wrap his hands around the warm china and feel the heat seep into his palms, and if he focuses hard he can pick out the faint threads of magic worked into the cup, worn thin by time and repeated use, placed there ages ago by some long-dead Malfoy. Narcissa makes comments from time to time about sending off the set to have the spellwork redone—the charm to maintain temperature on one cup in particular has all but vanished; Narcissa saves that cup specially for when Mrs Parkinson comes to visit—and Draco doesn’t know precisely when it became gauche to cast one’s own spellwork around one’s home, but he thinks it’s a shame. There’s something nice about a piece of your magic living on after you’ve gone, still a part of someone’s daily life.

His mother is watching him carefully, slipping little sidelong glances at him as she pours herself another cup of tea. She sets the teapot back down, the handle angled a little toward her. Draco leans forward and adjusts it so that the spout and handle create a line that’s parallel to the edge of the table. The little bowl of sugar is out of place as well, too close to the teapot, so Draco nudges that back where it’s supposed to be.

Narcissa sighs softly, the barest exhalation through her nose, and Draco glances over at her. Her expression is placid, and he can’t even begin to guess what she’s thinking.

She catches him watching her and reaches out to press her hand over his own. “I’m very glad you told us,” she says.

He shrugs a little. “I’ve already signed the lease, so it’s not as though I could keep it a secret much longer,” he says. He hopes she’ll take the hint and talk about his apothecary.

“You’ve kept it from us this long,” she says. And no, no such luck. They’re not talking about the apothecary.

Draco shrugs again.

“Although I can’t help but wonder why you’ve decided to tell us now,” Narcissa says. “Have you met someone, Draco? Has a—” She hesitates, barely a fraction of a second but Draco can hear the pause as she checks her words before continuing, “—boy caught your fancy?”

He blurts out a laugh before he can stop himself. “Sorry, no. I…” He draws in a breath and tries to gather his thoughts. He feels shaky, giddy with the last dregs of relief still singing through him. He’d been terrified of this, and now here he is with his mother asking him whether he’s met a _boy_. “I didn’t mean to, honestly I didn’t. I was only planning to tell you and Father about the shop and then the rest of it…” He trails off and finishes with a vague gesture, looping his finger through the air.

Narcissa hums softly and pats his knee. “I suspect a part of you was tired of keeping it to yourself,” she says and gives him a look. “Sometimes secrets have a way of forcing their themselves out into the open when you no longer wish to carry them.”

Draco looks down at the floor and digs his thumb into the cushion of the settee, stroking it slowly back and forth to feel the fine soft fur of the velvet upholstery sliding beneath his thumbnail. “I suppose so,” he says. He’s not sure if it feels better or not to have it out of him. Everything still feels strange, jittery and numb all at once.

Lucius returns just then and retakes his seat. There’s a long measure of silence during which Draco’s stomach climbs practically into his throat.

And then Lucius says, “Tell me about this shop you’ve bought.”

* * * * *

That night, he can’t sleep. He tries. He slips into bed between crisp sheets and closes his eyes. But although his body feels heavy and tired, his mind is strangely restless. The afternoon’s conversation is still catching up with him and his mind won’t stop turning over, replaying each word, examining each reaction. They’d had a very nice conversation about his shop and his plans for it, how much money he’d sunk into the building and the renovations and the stock, and how he planned to expand his business once he came into his second vault next year. Then Draco had sat down to supper with them, exactly the same as any other night, and everything was startlingly _normal_ aside from a few moments where Lucius had repeated Narcissa’s question nearly word-for-word, except he’d said _gentleman_ instead of _boy_ , and Draco had said no, he was far too busy with his shop for that, and then conversation had turned back to his apothecary.

It almost doesn’t feel like anything’s changed at all, except there’s an open place left inside him where that secret used to be, and he can’t stop pushing at the edges of it in a way that reminds him of lost teeth. How they would come loose with a sudden shock that was more surprise than pain, leaving an empty space he couldn’t stop prodding with the tip of his tongue even though the slick stretch of his exposed gums and the lingering taste of copper made him shudder. It’s like that. Every time he thinks to himself, _’Mother and Father know I like men,’_ he can’t help but flinch away from the truth of it.

And here it is again, a little fizzing jolt in the pit of his stomach. They know. They know and it’s all right.

The darkness of his bedroom is suddenly stifling, and the stretch of hours until sunrise spanning endlessly away from him and the thought of lying here awake until then all alone with his thoughts is indescribably dreadful. More than anything, he wishes he could skip ahead to when it’s morning.

Sighing to himself, Draco slips out of bed and takes a moment to tug the sheets and blankets neatly back into place before he pushes his feet into his slippers and shrugs into his dressing gown. He tucks his wand into his pocket and leaves his rooms. Warm milk always works for Draco nearly as well as Dreamless Sleep for knocking him out. It’s not something he indulges in very often; the first time he’d had it was when he was away at Hogwarts and had made an effort to drink it in the Great Hall at meals so as to fit in. He’d grown up on almond milk, so cow’s milk has always tasted a bit strange to him, too thick and creamy, and even during those first few weeks before he’d given up on it altogether he’d never been able to bring himself to drink it regularly. But warmed up with a bit of honey and vanilla, he views it as more medicinal than any sort of treat.

Draco glances at the clock. It’s not quite midnight yet, so there should still be a house-elf or two in the kitchen. And if there’s not, well. Draco earned an O on his Potions NEWT with a war on; he’s perfectly capable of heating up some milk for himself.

When he reaches the ground floor, a wedge of warm yellow lamplight spills across the floor from the cracked-open door to his father’s study, and Draco catches a glimpse of Lucius reviewing some papers at his desk as he tiptoes by. Down in the kitchen, the lone house-elf who’s still working squeaks in alarm and drops the heavy roasting pan she’s washing. It falls back into the sink with a splash of soapy water, drenching the ridiculous creature from head to toe. She shrieks, flails for a moment, and then plunges a hand into the sink, whips out a serving spoon and gives herself a good thwack over the head with it.

“Oh, stop that,” Draco says just as she spots how the spoon’s flung soapy water all over the floor.

She gives another shriek and tries to swing the serving spoon again, spattering more water, but Draco whips his wand out and wrenches it from her hand before the cycle can perpetuate itself. He releases the Levitation Charm and drops the spoon onto the countertop with a loud clatter that has the house-elf flinching away, and another murmured spell clears up the water from the floor and counter.

“Oh,” moans the house-elf, tugging at her ears. “Master should not be cleaning up the kitchen, it is Tippy’s mess to be cleaning up and it is not Master’s place to be…” Her head jerks up at that and her eyes go big and wide and utterly distraught. Her hand starts creeping across the countertop, groping blindly for the spoon. “Master should not _be_ in the kitchen, if Master is desiring something then Master ought to be calling for it—”

“Perhaps Master fancied a bit of a walk, and in any case, Master can go wherever he wishes,” Draco tells her dryly, using another spell to move the spoon out of her reach. He hits her with a Drying Charm and then follows it up with a Warming Charm in case her trembling is from chill rather than alarm.

It isn’t. She keeps shaking. He sighs.

“Tippy is sorry?” she offers after a moment, wringing the hem of her tea towel between her hands.

Draco sighs again. “I’m not upset,” he tells her, keeping his voice low and calm lest she try to knock herself over the head again. Draco doesn’t know what else might be in the sink besides that roasting pan, but he has no desire to find out. “I came down here for some warm milk to help me sleep.”

In the face of a clearly-defined task, she perks right up. “Oh,” she says. “Like when Master was home from school.” She snaps her fingers and a saucepan flies out of the cupboard and lands on the hob with a clatter. A flame whooshes to life beneath it.

Draco squints at her as she gets out a bottle of milk, but he can’t tell whether or not she’s the elf who used to bring him warm milk before bed when he was home on school holidays. They all look the same to him, at least until they start bashing themselves about the head or ironing their ears or what have you; their names usually come out amidst all the frantic apologising, but by that point, everyone’s got bigger problems.

Tippy follows him around as he paces the length of the kitchen and back again, still anxiously wringing her hands, but she doesn’t say anything to him so he doesn’t say anything to her. Then Tippy scurries off and he paces the length of the room twice more before she brings him his mug of hot milk.

She’s added honey and a little vanilla, with just a dash of cinnamon sprinkled over the top, and he’s almost certain that she’s the same one who used to do this for him before. She looks so pleased with herself as she hands it over to him, and nearly swoons when he murmurs a distracted, “Thank you,” as he takes it.

She was somewhat overzealous in filling the cup right up to the top and it’s still a little too hot to drink, so Draco’s forced to move slow and careful lest he spill. He makes his way up from the kitchens and up the hall past his father’s study where the lights are still on and the low murmur of voices drifts out into the hall. His mother’s in there too, now. Draco doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he hesitates when he catches his own name.

“...old enough to make his own decisions,” his mother is saying. “And like it or not, there’s little we can, _or should_ , do to stop him.”

“Cissa,” Lucius says, low and plaintive. “Our son plans to become a _shopkeeper_.”

Lucius says it like a dirty word, and Draco hides a smile though there’s no-one here to see it. Perhaps it’s for the best, then, that he blurted out everything at once. If there’s one thing that could possibly have distracted Lucius from his son’s deviant sexuality, it’s the fact that Draco, sole heir to the Malfoy fortunes, plans to pursue a common career.

When his mother speaks, she sounds exasperated, as if this argument’s been going on for a while and she’d very much like to reach the end of it.

“And what do you plan to do about it?,” Narcissa returns. “Lock him in his bedroom? You know how he can be when he’s made up his mind.”

“Wild thestrals couldn’t drag him away,” Lucius sighs. “He’s so stubborn when he sets his sights on something.”

“He gets that from you, you know,” Narcissa says, so low that Draco has trouble making out the words. Despite himself, he shuffles nearer as quietly as he can.

Lucius chuckles low in his throat, warm and amused. “One of my more charming qualities, I am assured.” A pause. “Tell me again how…” And then his voice dips down too soft for Draco to make out.

He leans closer to the door in the silence that follows, straining his ears, and oh. That’s the sound of kissing and _oh_ that’s very definitely the rustle of clothing and this is absolutely Draco’s cue to leave. He takes an enormous sip of his hot milk, scalds the shit out of his tongue, and forces himself to take another so he can move quickly away without fear of spilling. He sneaks down the hall and up the stairs and back to his room where he sets his cup on his bedside table before shedding his dressing gown and hanging it on its hook on the back of his door. He takes a moment to tug the sash straight so that the ends of the sash are even, then toes off his slippers and arranges them beside his bed, ready and waiting for him to step into when he gets up tomorrow. Then he gets into bed and drinks his milk and tries very hard to not think of what his parents may or may not be doing right now.

On the one hand, Draco is glad that his parents still love each other after twenty-five years of marriage. But on the other, that doesn’t mean he wants to know about it in any sort of detail. Pansy’s parents hate each other, but they refuse to divorce because, according to Pansy, that’d be like admitting defeat. Blaise’s mother has a new husband every other year, it seems. Might have a new one now, in fact, though Draco hasn’t spoken to him in a while and can’t be certain. Tomorrow. He should do that tomorrow.

He turns over and extinguishes the lights with a lazy _Nox_ and tucks his wand beneath his pillow, thinks for a few moments on how nice his bed feels, cool sheets and soft pillow, vaguely notices the soft pop of a house-elf coming to collect his empty cup, and is out.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, he’s standing in his shop. It’s 8:57 and in three minutes he will officially be open. And although he’s owned this building for nearly a month, and although he’s spent nearly every moment of the past few weeks organising stock and tracking down potential suppliers, and although he’s been busy brewing dozens of potions, none of that felt like this. All of that felt like anticipation. _This_ feels like a beginning.

None of it, Draco reflects, is anything at all like the glamorous life he’d imagined for himself once upon a time. It’s not exciting. It’s not laudable. It’s not important or influential or extraordinary or even particularly enviable.

But this is _his_ , Draco thinks with a deep sense of satisfaction. It’s his and no-one else’s.

This isn’t at all what his parents expected him to do with the first vault he’d inherited when he’d come of age. He knows his father expected him to take the modest number of Galleons and invest it. Or perhaps to slip it quietly along in persuasive pocketfuls to the appropriate Ministry personae who’d help him along the path to prominence and power. His mother had expected him to fritter it away on the idle entertainments of youth, on excessive drink and lavish meals, on women, on fancy clothes and flashy broomsticks.

He doesn’t think any of them, himself included, really expected him to sink every Knut of it on a small shop and enough stock to open his own apothecary until it was already over and done with. The location isn’t ideal—it’s only just this side of respectable; technically his address is on Diagon but his shop sits right on the corner of Knockturn—but it’s the best he can afford at present and, its biggest selling point for him, it has a one bedroom flat tucked away on the upper floor.

His shop is small but neat. The front of the shop has glossy pine floors and grey stone walls, high ceilings with heavy exposed beams and enchanted skylights that let in bright swathes of sunshine. Draco installed shelving along both walls, and a long counter takes up the rear of the room. That leaves just enough floorspace to set up four long tables upon which he’s arranged baskets and tins and jars of his wares. A narrow doorway behind the counter goes to the back room, darker than the front and more cramped due to the creaky wooden staircase that leads up to his flat, but it’s perfectly adequate for brewing and he’s converted the space into a small potions lab, with a long worktable and a large cast iron sink beneath the back window. The cupboard beneath the stairs is heavily layered with Expansion Charms and serves as a storeroom for his excess stock.

Two minutes, now.

Draco turns from the door and looks over his shop one last time. He’s arranged and rearranged the layout of his shop, stacking tins and lining up bottles and jars in precise rows, testing out different ways of organising it all, by size or by colour or by price. He’s finally settled on common and bulk ingredients at the front and the rarer or more expensive things near the back. A large display in the back corner holds single-dose vials of all the potions Draco’s spent the last week brewing: Pepper-Ups and Pimple Removers and Callous Softeners, cures for headaches and hangovers and hay fever and all manner of minor ailments. The very rarest ingredients, he keeps behind the counter.

One minute.

He’s ready. He’s done everything he possibly could. He’d done months of research leading up to this, figuring out what people wanted, what would sell, carefully weighing supply and demand and whether there’s enough of a market to support him even with Slug & Jiggers just up the street. 

He’s done everything he could possibly have done. He needs to trust in that.

The clock strikes nine. Draco flips the sign in his window to _Open_ and unlocks the door.

* * * * *

After how he’d built it up in his mind, the actual opening of his shop is somewhat anticlimactic. No-one comes in at first, and he spends the first fifteen minutes wandering his shop, adjusting things that don’t really need adjusting. He restacks a pyramid of tinned bat spleen. He brushes a speck of dust from a sealed jar of doxy eggs. He straightens the sign in the window twice. He casts a few cleaning charms at the enormous brass till, even though it’s already gleaming.

Eventually boredom wins out over his taut nerves, and thirty minutes past opening finds him slouched behind the counter and idly working through today’s _Prophet_. He’s already skimmed the articles and found nothing interesting among the usual blather: an article about how Saint Potter was spotted in a jeweller’s and speculation about whether he’ll propose to the Girl Weasel, coverage of a Ministry gala held the night before, speculation about Celestina Warbeck’s upcoming tour, an opinion piece arguing in favour of lifting restrictions on werewolves. That last one’ll probably earn a load of Howlers. Anti-Werewolf sentiments exploded post-war in the wake of Greyback’s campaign of terror. Even a year and a half later, people are still advocating that all werewolves be exiled or locked up for the safety of everyone; the restrictions and newly-implemented Werewolf Registry were meant as a compromise, one that’s far too lenient, in Draco’s opinion. Skimming to the bottom of the article, Draco’s not at all surprised to see Hermione Granger listed as author.

Draco sighs and turns to the back of the paper and begins to idly work his way through the daily crossword. When the bells above the door jangle, Draco whisks the paper beneath the counter and looks up to greet his first customer.

It’s his mother.

“Mother,” he says, exasperated, as the door falls shut behind her in another tinkle of bells. “What are you doing here?”

Narcissa tugs off first one glove, then the other, while looking around with great interest. As if she’s never been inside an apothecary before. As if she’s never been inside _this_ apothecary before, which she very well has. She’s stopped by twice so far in the three days since Draco registered his Floo with the network, and did an abysmal job of hiding her horror at the size of Draco’s flat both times. And perhaps it’s a bit on the small side—altogether it’s smaller than his suite of rooms at the Manor—but he doesn’t have to share it with anyone else so it suits him fine, and he has no idea why she’s being like this. He doesn’t think she took his absence this poorly when he went off to Hogwarts. But then again, she wasn’t able to come after him there so maybe she had and he had no idea.

At least she’s supportive. He’d still half-expected her to try to talk him out of leaving the Manor, especially after she got a look at his flat, but she’d given him a smile that only looked a little strained and informed him that she’d asked the house-elves to fetch an old set of fine china down from the attic for him to have, because although he’s bought himself a set of everyday china, he apparently needs fine china, and a full set of silver as well. Draco doesn’t plan to do much entertaining, and his little dining table barely seats four so he’s not sure what she expects him to do with a service for thirty-six, but he’d accepted it as the olive branch he thought Narcissa meant it as, kept the tea set to use regularly and packed up the rest carefully into its protective boxes and tucked it away in his tiny attic. It’s the only thing up there.

“I had some shopping to do this morning,” Narcissa says when she’s finally strolled the length of the shop and reached the counter. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re faring.”

“Well now you’ve seen,” Draco says. He’s not entirely sure why it feels this embarrassing to have his mother here when there’s no one to witness it, but he wants her gone.

“Hm,” Narcissa says, turning to browse his ready-brewed potions. She plucks a Headache Potion from the shelf and brings it up to the counter. “I’ll take this one.”

“I know for a fact that you’ve got several at home,” Draco says. He knows because he brewed them for her.

“And I’d like this one as well,” she says.

“Fine,” Draco sighs, because it’s easier than arguing. As soon as she pays, he hopes she’ll leave. Perhaps later he’ll feel heartened over how clearly she’s trying to support him, but right now all he can think of is a real customer walking in and seeing Draco’s mother here, like he’s a child who can’t manage this on his own. “Fourteen Sickles.”

She drops a handful of coins into his waiting palm. “Oh, I don’t need that,” she says when he rings in the total and reaches for the smaller coins. “Keep it.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Draco huffs. “That’s not how businesses work!”

“Of course it’s not, darling,” Narcissa says, already walking away while Draco’s still fumbling through the till, counting out Knuts. She pauses and half-turns back to him. “Can we expect you for dinner tonight?”

“No, I’ve got plans,” he says, because he does. He plans to go upstairs to his flat and have a cuppa and read for a bit. The thought of dinner with his parents and the never-ending flood of questions about his first day that would come along with it makes him tired already.

“All right,” Narcissa says. “I’ll expect you tomorrow, then.”

And then she’s gone before he can protest, and Draco’s left with a handful of Knuts and an empty shop. He glares at the coins in his hands and weighs the advantages and disadvantages of sending them out into the street after her. The spell would be easy enough to work, and the idea of little bronze coins rolling along the street after Narcissa like tiny ducklings would be amusing; the ensuing conversation with his parents about the hazards of working Blood Magic in public and over something so petty would be decidedly less so, and in the end Draco slips the coins neatly back into their row in the till before banging the drawer shut, and settling in to wait for his next customer.

A _real_ one, this time.

* * * * *

By the end of the day, he’s had a grand total of seven people come in. Two of them are owners of nearby shops who’d stopped in to say hello to their new neighbour and to investigate whether he posed any sort of competition to their businesses. One witch wandered in by mistake, looking for the shop that’d been here before Draco and was quite distraught to discover that Euphrasia’s Embroidery Emporium was no longer open for business. The last four had been actual customers; three of them had made purchases.

And not a single one of them, Draco is pleased to note as he locks the door and flips the sign to _Closed_ , had seemed at all unnerved to discover a Malfoy behind the counter.

His first day open might not’ve been a rousing success from a financial standpoint, but Draco’s more than willing to call it a win. And anyhow, Tuesdays tend to be quiet on Diagon, as the older woman who owned the antique shop across the street had assured him. And despite running ads in the _Prophet_ announcing his opening, most people likely aren’t aware he’s even here yet. Things will pick up, he’s sure, once word gets around.

He counts down the till and records the day’s numbers in his ledger, then spends a while getting things in order for tomorrow. He makes sure all the jars and tins and bundles of ingredients on his shelves are neat and organised, sweeps the floor twice, and polishes his fingerprints from the shiny brass of the till. It doesn’t take very long, so he does a quick inventory of his potions, and double-checks his stock in the back, and then he’s done for the day.

Draco makes his way through the shop to the back room and up the staircase to his flat, and the instant he closes the door at the top of the stairs behind him, he feels the tension he didn’t realise he’d been carrying in his shoulders drain away. Down there is work; up here is home.

It’s not much to look at, but in the short time since he’s moved in, it’s grown on him. It’s small, but it feels cosy rather than cramped. There’s a tiny bathroom tucked off to one side, with the kitchenette beside it. The rest of the flat is one large room, aside from a second alcove at the front of the shop. It looks like it may have been a window seat once upon a time, but somewhere along the line a very industrious wizard had layered the space with careful Extension Charms and created a little nook just deep enough to hold a double bed. It reminds Draco of the Hogwarts dormitories, and in a fit of nostalgia he’d purchased a set of emerald green curtains to hang in the archway, closing it off from the rest of the flat.

Besides the bed, he’s got a wardrobe, sofa and chair and coffee table for the living room, two narrow bookshelves, a small round dining table and four wooden chairs, and his most prized piece, a vintage wizard’s wireless he’d scrounged from the attic at the Manor. It’s a hulking art deco monstrosity, all rich cherry wood and gleaming brass knobs with an enormous stylised dial and, best of all, it’s got a lid that flips up to reveal a phonograph built right into the top. Draco loves it.

He switches it on now, fiddles with the dial a little, catching snatches of an opera, the news, a cheerful little jingle advertising Cauldron Soap, until he tunes into a station playing old jazz standards, and sets a kettle to boil for tea. When it’s ready, he pours himself a cup and settles onto the armchair to read for a while.

So, this is life as the owner of an apothecary.

Draco rather thinks he likes it.

* * * * *

The first week the apothecary is open for business turns out to be more of a trial than Draco had expected, given that first easy day. Running a shop isn’t something Draco had ever thought about in any depth. He’d assumed he’d sit behind the counter and take people’s money, and it’d be easy. Of course it’d be easy, because how difficult could it possibly be? Draco had things to sell, and people would come into his shop to buy them, and that would be that. Right?

The first day went easily. He only had a few customers over the course of the day. The second day went easily as well, as did the third, and the fourth. On the fifth day, however, Saturday, Draco discovers that he’d not only vastly underestimated the weekend crowds, but he’d also forgot that this was the last day of Winter hols, when Diagon flooded with Hogwarts students stopping by for a quick thing or two before they returned to school for the rest of the year, and that these students were all accompanied by their parents, who thought that since they were here already they might as well run all their errands now.

His shop is a madhouse by half past nine, and by ten Draco’s ready to lock his door early and hide in the back. The children are terrible, the parents are worse, and his patience is a hair’s breadth from snapping entirely. 

The witch he’s just served looks at the heaping handful of Knuts he’s trying to give her like it’s a handful of dragon dung. “Haven’t you got anything larger?” she asks, like it was his brilliant idea to count out her change in the smallest coins possible.

She, like _every single one_ of his other customers so far today, has insisted on paying for her small purchase with Galleons, and by now he’s entirely out of Sickles. This current witch, who’d handed him a gleaming gold coin to pay for her single scoop of newt eyes, stares at him and makes no move to take the Knuts, which Draco would really like her to do since he’s still got three more customers to serve after her and if they all try to pay in Galleons too, so help him, he won’t be responsible for his actions, because by now he’s nearly out of Knuts as well and why isn’t she taking them and bloody well leaving?

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he says through clenched teeth. He holds the Knuts a little closer to her.

She sniffs. “Well. I certainly don’t need to be carrying half of Gringotts in my handbag!” she exclaims, then reaches into said handbag and pulls out a Sickle, clicks it down onto the counter and pushes it over to Draco with a single fingertip. “There, now. If you’ll just give me back my Galleon…?”

Draco takes a deep breath and holds it until the urge to beat his head against the till abates. Then he puts the Knuts back, gives her the Galleon, takes the Sickle, counts out nine Knuts as change, hands them over and wishes fervently for her to step out of his shop and get run over by the Knight Bus.

The next wizard in line, mercifully, pays for his purchase in exact change, and Draco’s so relieved to see the silver shine of Sickles in his till again he doesn’t even care that it takes the man so long to dig out the last two Knuts from the very bottom of his pockets that the witch queued up behind him starts huffing and rolling her eyes.

But the wizard leaves, and the witch steps up and sets her tin on the counter, and Draco rings it up and tells her the total.

“That can’t be correct,” she tells him.

Despite himself, Draco double-checks the price sticker on the tin against what he’s rung up. “I assure you it is.”

Her mouth twists and she snatches up the tin and looks at the price herself. “No, I’m sure it can’t be correct, because it’s cheaper than this at Slug & Jiggers.”

And Draco knows he shouldn’t rise to it. He knows he should smile and be polite and let it go. But there are too many people in here and his shop’s a mess and he hasn’t had his tea yet, and this awful woman doesn’t even know what she’s talking about because Adder’s forks are only available through a single vendor in England and _they_ set the price, not him, and certainly not Slug  & Jiggers.

So he says, before he can stop himself, “So go and buy it there, then.”

“Well I never,” she huffs, jerking back like he’s struck her. “You’re not going to stay in business very long with _that_ attitude!” And she slams down the tin of Adder’s forks and flounces off. 

Draco watches her go, feeling half-annoyed and half-guilty and altogether helpless. Then he flicks his wand to send the tin of Adder’s forks back to its shelf, pastes a smile onto his face, and gestures to the next waiting customer.

And so his day goes. By five o’clock, he’s having fantasies of burning his shop to the ground, collecting the insurance money, and disappearing to Bora Bora for the rest of his life.

But over time, he learns. There’s a lot more trial and error than he’d have liked, but he learns, and things get easier. He learns to keep extra change at hand, and he learns to let the insults of more difficult customers slide off his back. He learns which ingredients sell fastest and which he can keep at a low stock. He also spends one of his rare days off laying a net of complex charmwork over all the shelves to keep their contents neatly aligned so that he doesn’t have to keep going around the shop and putting things back in order. The spell keeps everything neat, and when a customer takes something down from the shelf, the rest of the jars or tins behind it shuffle obediently forward to fill the empty space.

But the biggest lesson Draco learns is that a little flexibility goes a long way. Slug & Jiggers, for example, has been in business for the better part of a century. They’re old and set in their ways, and their attitude is that if you don’t like what they’ve got, then you’re more than welcome to take your business elsewhere.

Draco is more than happy for his shop to be that _elsewhere_.

It starts rather by accident. He overheard one young witch lamenting to her friend that her son couldn’t take Pepper-Up because of a sensitivity to bicorn horn. That gives him the idea of opening himself to special orders. He used to experiment with alternative ingredients back at Hogwarts. The various ingredients used in potions interact in tremendously complex ways, but brewing is as much a science as it is an art, and those interactions can oftentimes be predicted through careful study, intense application of theory, and an arseload of arithmancy. And Draco had always enjoyed picking apart the magic to see how it all works.

Some ingredients are easier to find substitutes for than others, of course, but Draco gets lucky with the Pepper-Up, and it only takes him a few evenings of tinkering around in his back room to discover that he can swap in ordinary cow’s horn that was harvested beneath a full moon, and tweak some of the other ingredients. Cow’s horn is a common ingredient, so Draco adds in just a dash of ground runespoor scales to make up the magical deficit, and there he’s got it. It’s not quite as effective as traditionally-brewed Pepper-Up, but it works well enough that the grateful witch told her friends, and now word’s spread around enough that Draco’s taking in at least two or three custom orders each week, enough that he’s started spending his one day off per week down in his potions lab, working through complex magical equations and keeping an eye on his simmering cauldrons.

He’s nearing the end of a particularly slow Sunday afternoon several months after he first opened his doors, and his mind is half-occupied with the alternative Anti-Acne Cream he hasn’t quite got right. He’s looking forward to spending a quiet Monday working on it because he feels certain that he’s getting close…

He’s half-distracted by thinking about it as he helps a young witch locate a headache potion strong enough to take care of her migraines. When he finishes serving her and comes out from behind the counter again, he stops short. Because there by the door, poking a finger through a bowl of dried frog toes (2 Knuts for a dozen) is—

“Potter,” Draco says, stalking up to him. “What are you doing here?”

Potter blinks at him, turning, and snatches his hand back. “Oh. Malfoy. You’re… here.”

He seems surprised, and then abruptly guilty, as if he’s been caught out at something. And that brings it all back, righteous Potter sneaking around, checking up on Draco. He knows Potter’s gone on to become an Auror, only just completed his training, in fact, not that Draco gives a rat’s hairy hindquarters about anything to do with the Chosen Git, but it’s been all over the papers recently. Annoyingly unavoidable.

“Come to check up on me, then?” Draco says. “If you seriously think I’ve been up to something nefarious, I invite you to come back with your uniform and a warrant. And until then—”

“I wasn’t,” Potter cuts him off, one hand slipping off to the side, sliding along the shelf behind him. “I came in here to buy… I just needed…” Potter’s creeping hand encounters a glass jar, nudging it into the one behind it in a faint clink of glass. He picks it up without looking. “This. I just came for this.”

Draco folds his arms over his chest and gives Potter his best sceptical look: arched brows and half-lowered lids and pursed lips, chin tipped back a little so he’s looking down the long slope of his nose. “Really,” he says flatly. “You need sixteen ounces of deliquisced goshawk’s liver.”

Potter blinks down at the vial in his hand like he’s never seen it before, which, to be quite fair, Draco’s fairly sure he hasn’t. “Erm.”

Draco snatches it from his hand and puts it back on the shelf, nudges the jar behind it back into alignment even though the charmed shelves would’ve taken care of it in a moment. “I remember your poor performances in Potions, so forgive me if I’m having trouble believing that you’ve suddenly taken up brewing in your spare time.”

Predictably, Potter’s expression turns mulish. “I might’ve,” he says.

“Well,” Draco says, waving grandly at the display. “If you want to spend two Galleons on proving whatever stubborn point you’re trying to make, be my guest. Be sure to use it soon, though. It hasn’t got a very long shelf life, and it smells awful when it turns.”

Potter gapes at him. “Two Galleons?” he echoes. “What’s it made of, diamonds?” and he sounds outraged, as if he know anything about _anything_ to do with potions ingredients, but isn’t that just like him to come swanning in here passing judgement on Draco’s shop anyhow.

“It’s made of _liver_ , much as the name implies,” Draco snaps. “If that’s too much for you, the whole livers are just there.” He points at the next shelf over. “It’s sixteen ounces for nine Sickles.”

Potter frowns and looks over to where Draco’s pointing. “If that’s cheaper, why are you selling the other stuff?”

“Because different potions call for different ingredients. There’s a difference between sliced and diced and minced, and organic ingredients that have been deliquisced blend better at low temperatures when you’re brewing—Did you not learn _anything at all_ in class?”

Potter shrugs. “I mostly just did what the book told me to do,” he said.

And ignored all the theory behind why any of it worked the way it did, clearly. Draco tamps down on the urge to continue this inane conversation. History’s proven that Potter’s unwilling to pursue even the most basic of information on his own, great Gryffindor git that he is, and in any case sometimes Draco has to remind himself that not everyone’s as intrigued by, say, the different properties of goshawk’s liver the way he is. If it’s not a broom or a Snitch or a dark wizard, Potter probably doesn’t care.

“Is there anything with which I can help you?” he grits out. “Or would you prefer to continue wasting my time?”

Potter seems to waver, then sighs and his shoulders droop a bit. “Well, I’m after a potion.”

Draco waits, but Potter doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “Imagine that,” he says dryly after a few seconds have gone by. “You’ve come to an apothecary in search of a potion.”

“I tried Slug & Jiggers first,” Potter says defensively.

“But they close early on Sundays, so here you are,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. It adds a little something extra to the conversation to know that he’s a last resort. “What do you need?”

Potter fidgets, then says, “You know what? On second thought, I’m sure I can find it myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Draco says, and goes back behind the counter, takes out the day’s _Prophet_ and flips it open, conspicuously ignoring Potter entirely. Whatever Potter’s after must be tremendously embarrassing if he won’t come out and ask Draco for it outright. Draco doesn’t let any curiosity show on his face, because he is a professional. Running an apothecary means he gets a fair number of people with ailments too minor for St Mungo’s, and some of those ailments are of an extremely _personal_ nature.

And in any case, Potter won’t have any choice but to bring his purchase up to Draco to pay for it. He’ll find out what it is soon enough. And frankly, as trying as it can be when customers are reluctant to tell him what they need so he can get it for them and they can be on their way that much sooner, it certainly beats the alternative. Just yesterday, Draco found himself trapped in an excruciatingly long and entirely one-sided conversation with an older wizard regarding the best treatment for haemorrhoids. He’s proud to say that he endured the whole of it with a perfectly bland expression on his face.

It takes Potter nearly five minutes to find whatever he’s looking for and then approach the counter with the vial clutched tightly in hand. He sets it on the counter, Draco takes his time refolding the newspaper and tucking it away before he picks up the vial to ring it up. And then must not do nearly as good a job at keeping his surprise off his face as he’d intended, because Potter’s purchasing a pain potion specifically formulated for menstrual cramps.

“It’s not for me,” Potter says, crams his hands into his pockets, comes up with a handful of loose coins.

“I assumed it wasn’t,” Draco tells him blandly, slipping the vial into a bag. “That’ll be one Galleon, ten Sickles.”

Potter looks up from sorting through his coins. “Really? It’s cheaper than the liver?”

 _Did you or did you not inherit the Black vaults on top of the Potter ones?_ Draco wants to demand, because he knows for a fact that Potter’s currently got more money to his name than Draco has, and why in the bloody hell is Potter so fixated on the price of things? Instead he says, “Processing the liver is a time-consuming and extremely unpleasant procedure. I have to order it specially.”

“Oh, er. You don’t have to tell me, I’m okay not knowing about any of that,” Potter says, counting out Sickles. “I was just surprised about the potion. Hermione told me it’d be two Galleons.”

Draco looks up at him in surprise because last he’d heard, Granger and the Weasel had quite happily settled down with each other, and wasn’t Potter still with the girl Weasley? How on earth has the _Prophet_ missed catching wind of this? Potter flushes pink and dumps his handful of coins all over the counter in a great clatter.

“Oh, no. That came out wrong,” he says quickly, ducking down to retrieve the two Sickles that’d rolled off onto the floor. He comes back up, flustered, and pushes the coins into Draco’s hands. “We’re not, you know. Ron’s out of town and she had to work late tonight, and I’m just doing a favour for her. As a friend. Because that’s what friends do.”

“I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. Do you need a receipt?” Draco rings up the purchase, and the drawer slams open with a cheerful _ding!_ just in time to punctuate his words. He puts the coins in and bangs the drawer shut.

“Yes please,” Potter says. Draco’s complete lack of interest seems to have calmed him somewhat.

Draco writes it out for him, dates it with the little rubber stamp he keeps by the till, and hands it over. “Thank you very much,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s. Okay,” Potter says, going a bit flustered again for absolutely no reason Draco’s able to discern, crams the receipt into his pocket and takes a step back. “I’ll, erm. See you round.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying out the door and down the street. And good riddance, Draco thinks as he rounds the corner to lock up for the evening. Potter’s never brought anything but trouble to Draco’s life. He hopes that’ll be the last he sees of him entirely.

(He doesn’t quite believe he should be so lucky, but it’s a nice thought.)

* * * * *

Draco’s not entirely certain why he’s so surprised to see Hermione Granger come into his shop a few days after Potter turned up. Gryffindors did always tend to stick together, and where one goes, the others aren’t often far behind.

She looks good, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, and she’s put on a bit of weight since the end of the War, enough to smooth over that gaunt edge they’d all had by the end, and she looks much better for it. He sees her in the papers every so often, but the photographs usually catch her with her mouth open and it’s not her most flattering angle. Granger has replaced house-elves with werewolves as her latest campaign, and has been garnering a fair amount of attention on behalf of her cause. She looks up just then and makes eye contact, and Draco gives her a nod but is saved from having to approach her right away by one of his neighbors.

Dorothea, the older witch who owns the antique shop across the way, has decided that now’s the perfect time for what she refers to as _‘a nice little chat’_ but really is her stopping by to pass along all the most recent goings-on of their small stretch of Diagon Alley. Dorothea is a shameless gossip, but Draco doesn’t mind too much. He’s careful to keep the details of his own life as bland and uninteresting as possible, so as not to become the subject of her gossiping. But he likes hearing about other people. Especially the ongoing saga of Mr and Mrs Hobbs—they own the flower shop two doors down—which is a bigger source of entertainment than any of the radio dramas Draco plays on the wireless in the evenings. They’re on the same side of the street as Draco, so Dorothea’s got a better view from her shop of their goings-on.

They’re currently on the outs again. According to Dorothea, they had another argument earlier this morning that culminated in Mrs Hobbs chasing her husband halfway down the street, flinging Stinging Jinxes after him and shouting at the top of her lungs while he dodged and made rude gestures back at her and called her a barmy old bat, and Draco’s really very sorry he missed the whole thing because that sounds _spectacular_. Mr and Mrs Hobbs are shameless and Draco’s always equal parts delighted and appalled by their behavior.

“Don’t see how you could have, the way they were carrying on out there,” Dorothea says, shaking her head pityingly. “They were putting on quite the performance.”

Draco sighs a little, still keeping an eye on Granger where she’s browsing along the front of the shop. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be giving an encore soon enough.”

He’s about to speculate on exactly how long it’ll be until they make up and put on an entirely different sort of spectacle in the streets, when Dorothea’s wand buzzes loudly, signalling that the Proximity Charm she’s left across the front door of her shop has been disturbed.

Dorothea sighs, as if having customers in her shop is a true hardship. Privately, Draco’s convinced the only reason she even owns a shop is so as to watch all her neighbours and gossip about them. She must live in a really boring neighbourhood, or one with really good privacy wards, that she depends on Diagon Alley for her entertainment.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Dorothea says, patting his arm, and Draco gives her a smile.

“Looking forward to it,” he says, because later will probably be round teatime, and she usually minds the shop for him for a few minutes while he makes them both a cuppa. It’s a nice break.

She goes bustling back across the street to her own shop, leaving Draco alone with Granger. Unable to put it off any longer, he takes a slow, deep breath and then heads over to her.

“Granger,” he says politely when he reaches her side

“Hello, Malfoy,” she says. It’s not quite friendly, but it’s not precisely _un_ friendly, either. She puts the dragon’s claw she’d been examining back into the basket and turns to face him. “Harry told me he stopped in here the other day to pick up a potion for me.”

“He did,” he says, wondering where she’s going with this.

“I was curious about the formula you used,” Granger says. “I could tell it’s not the usual one.”

“I can assure you it’s been approved,” Draco tells her archly. Is that why she’s come here, to investigate whether he’s adhering to Ministry-set brewing standards? “Every formula I use has been submitted to the Primary Office of Potion Formula Assessment & Regulatory Testing Services and met their standards of safety and potency.” He’s got all the paperwork on file and won’t hesitate to get out his copy and shove it right in Granger’s face if that’s what it takes.

“I didn’t mean to imply that it hadn’t,” Granger tells him coolly. “All I meant was, I noticed the difference. The stuff I usually take tastes like mouldy oranges. Yours didn’t.”

It’s a common complaint regarding pain potions. The leeches tend to react poorly with several of the other ingredients, but Draco’s discovered that a pinch of salt and careful anti-clockwise turns of his wand take care of that easily enough. It takes a bit more time to brew that way, and he has to take care to keep the flame beneath his cauldron from getting too hot or else the mouldy orange taste comes through anyhow, but it’s worth it, he thinks. He takes pride in his work.

“Well,” Draco says. He’s uncertain if he should say thank-you or not. She hadn’t given him an explicit compliment so much as simply stated a fact. But he’s fairly sure she appreciated it, because mouldy orange isn’t exactly a pleasant flavour.

Granger nods at him. “So, I thought I’d stop by to see whether all of your pain potions are like that?”

And that’s a clear request. “They are indeed,” he says, slipping into shopkeeper mode. He gestures to the back corner with its neat rows of vials and leads the way over. “All of the pre-brewed potions are back here. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Something for headaches, mostly. And I think a few for sore muscles. Always good to keep those on hand.” She rolls her eyes a bit. “Ron wrenched his back a few weeks ago. He claims it was chasing down a nasty criminal at work, but he and Harry had just de-gnomed the garden and turned it into a bit of a competition, so I have my doubts.”

She slips him a sidelong glance, and this feels like a test she’s expecting him to fail. Does she really expect him to make fun of the Weasel right to her face? Or comment on how déclassé it is to de-gnome one’s own garden? Whatever tactless thing she expects him to say, he won’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, Draco gives her a blandly polite smile and says, “Well, the headache ones are down here.” He points at the row of neatly-labelled vials. “From left to right we’ve got Aching, Splitting, Pounding, Throbbing, and then Extra-Strength Migraine Mitigator, depending on your needs. Muscle aches are just here.” He taps the shelf. “Those go from One to Ten, with One being ‘I exercised a bit more strenuously than I meant to’ and Ten being ‘I was just trampled by a herd of wild thestrals.’ If in doubt, I’d suggest going with the higher strength potion. If you choose something too strong for your pain, it might make you a bit wobbly for a few hours but shouldn’t have any adverse effects.”

Normally he also advises his customers to carefully read the labels for warning and lists of ingredients in case they’ve any allergies or sensitivities, but this is Granger he’s talking to so he doesn’t bother. He leaves her to it, and Granger quickly picks out two vials of pain potion for Pounding Headaches, and then several of the muscle potions from two through four. Draco rings her up and she pays in exact change, and it’s all very nice and polite, if a bit impersonal for an interaction with someone who once was _Crucio_ -ed on the floor of his drawing room. 

Better than the alternative, Draco thinks to himself as he tucks her purchases into a paper bag and hands them off to her with a smile and a polite, “Thank you.”

“Mm, thanks,” she replies, a bit preoccupied with folding the paper bag around the vials and packing it away into her satchel, and Draco’s eye is drawn to the little pro-werewolf badge she’s got pinned to the canvas. It’s blue, with a little black pawprint and the letters P.A.W.S. written above it: the Protection and Advocacy of Werewolf Support. Her acronym’s a little shaky, and Draco thinks she was better off when she titled things with no regard for what the letters ended up spelling out.

When he looks up, he finds Granger watching him. She arches her eyebrows, clearly waiting for him to comment on the badge.

Draco does not. Instead, he smiles politely and says, “Have a good evening.”

She gives him a nod and a small smile, then heads off.

As he watches the door fall shut behind her, Draco sighs and shakes his head a little to himself. First Potter, now Granger. There’s only one left of the Golden Trio, and despite his surprisingly civil interactions with the two so far, Draco can’t quite bring himself to picture the same happening with the Weasel. In fact, Draco wonders whether Granger even intends to tell him where the potions she just purchased came from, because he’d bet his last dented Knut that Weasley will refuse to take them if she does. And wouldn’t Draco just love to be a fly on the wall for _that_ thrilling conversation.

He smiles for a moment, imagining it, then the bells over the door alert him to another customer entering his shop, and he puts aside all thoughts of Granger in favour of getting on with his day.


	2. Chapter 2

Weasley doesn’t come in, as it turns out, not that week nor any week after, to Draco’s ongoing relief. Granger continues to come in every couple of months to pick up a few things, and the smalltalk they make is polite, albeit a bit stilted. She picks out a few potions, and pays, and then she leaves. And it’s rather nice, Draco thinks. They’ll never be anything like friends, but there’s something about the civility of their interactions that fills him with an odd sense of pride. It makes him feel very grown-up and mature, which is ridiculous because he’s twenty-one years-old, and owns his own shop, and oughtn’t that be the measure of his capability rather than having a short chat about the unseasonably warm weather with Granger?

In any case, after the first few times she stops by, even her appearances become as unremarkable as anything else. It’s been over a year since the shop opened and Draco’s settled quite comfortably into his routine. Up early in the morning to do a few chores around the shop before he opens, work behind the counter and ring up customers’ purchases from nine to six Tuesday to Saturday, and noon to five on Sundays. Evenings and Mondays he spends brewing. On Monday evenings he goes to the Manor for dinner. Occasionally, he’ll meet one of his Hogwarts housemates for a drink or two, but it’s been a while since the last time that happened. He’s been so busy lately he’s had to decline, and eventually the invitations had stopped coming. It’s a bit lonely sometimes, and more than a little predictable, but Draco doesn’t mind. He made it, and it’s his. He’s content. Predictability is underrated, anyway. It’s so wonderfully free of stress.

His mother asks him about that, sometimes. _Don’t you want more excitement in your life, Draco?_ And it’s all he can do to keep from scoffing right in her face, because hasn’t he had enough _excitement_ in his life so far to last him the rest of it? Haven’t they all?

Merlin. The War left him with nightmares and a tendency to startle at loud or unexpected noises. Some days his hands won’t stop shaking.

But he doesn’t tell her that; he just smiles and says that with the shop, he hasn’t got time for anything else.

It’s true enough, in any case. By now he’s taking in dozens of orders, in addition to running his shop. Six months ago Draco had thought it’d be a wonderful opportunity to begin accepting mail orders, to cultivate a wider customer base and expand his business. Now he’s taking in more orders for custom potions than there are hours in the day to brew them in, and he’s reached the point where he needs to figure out a way to spend more time brewing or he’ll have to start turning down orders. It’s either hire an assistant or find himself a Time-Turner, and unfortunately only one of those is legal.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to dinner next week,” he says as he and his father settle in front of the fireplace in Lucius’ study after dinner. “I’m going to be employing an assistant for the shop and I’ve scheduled the interviews for next Monday.”

“Oh?” Lucius asks, sipping from his tumbler of scotch before setting it aside. “You’re bringing in enough Galleons to afford that, now?”

When he first opened his apothecary over a year ago, Draco would’ve taken that as an insult, but this far on he knows enough to take it at face value. Right after he’d come out to his father and moved away from the Manor and opened the shop, things had grown strained between them. Lucius didn’t seem like he quite knew what to do with a son who’d defied all the expectations Lucius had set for him, and Draco found that sudden uncertainty irrationally hurtful, because he was still the same person, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to be treated any differently. But Lucius continued to leave an almost painstaking amount of space between them, and the lack of pressure had become a source of stress itself. And the worst of it was, he was clearly trying so hard that Draco didn’t feel he could say anything about it. Lucius was trying, and so Draco would try too, and not put any more strain on their relationship.

At least once the shop had started doing well enough that they could talk numbers and investments and opportunities for expansion, things had become a little easier between them. Discussion of Galleons and opportunities for expanding the shop gave them back some measure of common ground, and Lucius seemed eager to meet Draco halfway. For a while, all their conversations revolved around numbers and business speculation, but from there, the rest of their interactions had grown easier as well.

“Mm,” Draco says, cupping his palms round the warmth of his demitasse. Normally he joins his father in a Scotch, but he’s still got half a dozen orders to fill before he can go to sleep tonight, so strong black coffee it is. “Barely. But once I’ve got someone to watch over the shop for me, I’ll have more time to brew.” He stretches a little, reaching over the arm of the chair to place his demitasse neatly on the end table. “The higher volume of mail orders I’ll be able to take in will more than cover a shop assistant’s wages.” And he’ll be coming into his second vault in a few short months. Currently he’s planning to make some personal investments with it if at all possible. Part of it will likely end up funnelled into the shop, and he’ll sink the rest of it in as well if he needs to. It’s nice to have that as a safety net if he can’t pick up enough extra business for custom orders to justify paying an assistant.

“Well, your mother will be relieved to hear that,” Lucius says. “She’s been quite worried lately that you’re overworking yourself.”

Privately, Draco suspects that Narcissa isn’t the only one who’s been worrying about him, but he doesn’t point that out. He can read between the lines, and that’s good enough. He doesn’t need it put into words. “She needn’t,” he says instead. “It’s not more than I can handle.” He picks up his coffee again and cups his hands around it again. “But I’ll admit, I’m looking forward to having a bit of a break.”

And he is. Draco hasn’t had a lie-in for months, not since late autumn and that hardly even counted; he’d only done it because he’d caught a nasty cold that even Pepper-Up couldn’t touch and the thought of getting out of bed on his one day off had been horrible enough to temporarily flatten his enthusiasm for anything but lying horizontal and fantasising about being able to breathe through his nose again.

He takes a slow, deep breath through his nose because even the memory of that cold is enough to make him appreciative of the simple joy of clear sinuses.

“I’ve had three applicants so far,” Draco goes on. “Two of them fresh out of Hogwarts, but all three of them seem fairly promising.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone suitable,” Lucius tells him. “Perhaps after you’ve selected someone and have trained them in the day-to-day operations, you might take a couple of days off. I’ve managed to secure two tickets to the International Finals, and it’s been a crup’s age since we’ve gone to a Quidditch match.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I could leave someone alone with the shop…” Draco begins.

“It’s in August, Draco. Surely two months is enough time.” He waves one hand dismissively before Draco can protest again. “Think about it, you don’t have to decide right away.”

“All right,” Draco says. “I’ll think on it.”

He’s fairly certain that he won’t go. But the way his father smiles at him makes his resolve falter.

Well. He’s still got plenty of time to decide. He should at least see how his new employee gets on before he decides for sure one way or the other.

* * * * *

In the end, Draco receives five applications, and schedules them one right after the other for Monday afternoon. He’d been nervous through the first two interviews, a little hesitant through the next two, but by the fifth he’s much more comfortable. He feels almost confident, in fact, because so far all of the interviews had gone nearly the same. Introductions, he asks the same questions, listens to the answers, and then thanks them for their time before ushering in the next interviewee.

It’s almost routine by the time he reaches number five.

The first four applicants had been closer to what he’d expected. Three wizards and one witch, all fresh out of Hogwarts, all with exceptional NEWT scores and the sort of bright eagerness that Draco finds slightly overwhelming. They all show up in neatly-pressed robes and with wide smiles that straddle the line between bright and nervous. The interviews themselves are rote: he asks some questions about potions and ingredients to be sure they’re knowledgeable enough to be left on the shop floor alone, he goes over their duties and inquires about their availability. At the end of each interview, he asks what inspired them to apply for this position: two of them are looking for a summer job before they begin training at St Mungo’s in the autumn, one as a Mediwizard and one as a Healer; one plans to pursue a career as a professor and feels that a few years of practical work experience would strengthen her application when she applies for her Potions Mastery; the fourth one wanted a job to occupy his time for the next two years until his girlfriend finished at Hogwarts, and then they planned to move to Romania so she could work as a dragon tamer.

He’s been putting off hiring an assistant for a while now, reluctant to let someone else come into what he thinks of as _his_ space. He’ll be spending a lot of time with whomever he employs, and what if they don’t get on? But any one of the people he’s interviewed so far seem perfectly fine, and perhaps that’s why he’s finally relaxed by the final interview. If this last one doesn’t work out, he’s already got four other options. He rather liked the one with the dragon tamer girlfriend.

Draco’s grateful for that when his fifth and final candidate walks in, because at first glance he’s almost certain she’s not what he’s looking for.

He frowns a little as he observes her. The modest Muggle clothing, the little silver Star of David glinting against the dark wool of her jumper. She wears her dark hair pulled back severely, no make-up, and no jewellery other than the simple necklace. The stubborn tilt of her chin practically dares him to remark upon any of it. When she reaches out to shake his hand, her palm is warm and dry and she clasps his fingers firmly.

He likes that. He can tell a lot about a person by their handshake, and he’s got a good feeling from hers. He’s still unconvinced she’s a good fit for his shop, but he’ll hear her out.

“Draco Malfoy,” he says.

She nods and gives him a polite smile. “Zelda Goldstein.”

He gestures to one of the chairs at the little table he’s set up by the window. “Any relation to Anthony, perchance?”

“My cousin,” she says as they sit.

“Ah.” He glances down at her application—very good penmanship, he likes that in a person—and peruses. “I see you attended Beauxbatons. You speak French, then?”

Her smile this time is a bit more genuine. “Fluently.”

“Fantastic,” he says, because that’s rather a large point in her favour. “I do business with a supplier in Paris and our conversations are a bit of a nightmare. International Floo connections play merry hell with Translation Charms, you know.” And oh, if Draco never has to face Henri again, that would be wonderful. He has no idea what the botched Translation Charm had him saying that made Henri turn that red so rapidly, and Draco has no desire to find out. In any case, his interactions with Henri have been strained ever since.

He goes through the rest of the questions, and her answers are all exceedingly satisfactory. But given her exemplary Potions scores, he expected nothing less. He goes over what he’d expect from her, and in the middle of him rattling off the shop’s hours, she looks like she wants to say something.

“...and closed every Monday,” he finishes. “Did you need to ask me something?”

Zelda nods. “Regarding time off for Jewish holidays,” she says. Her chin tips up again. “Will that be a problem?”

Draco frowns and for one sharp moment he’s tempted to say that it will. The faith of others has always made him feel uneasy, and that hasn’t changed. Lucius has always looked down upon witches and wizards of faith. He views their belief in a higher power as a weakness, as a distraction, as one more Muggle contamination creeping into proper wizarding culture, because what use did a man have for God when he had magic at his fingertips? Narcissa doesn’t quite share her husband’s strong opinions, but she’s always spoken of religion as a quaint sort of oddity. And Draco…?

Years ago, he’d probably have parroted his parents attitudes without bothering to think too much about it. But the War, especially that last terrible year he’d spent at Hogwarts, had made Draco question a great many things. He remembered Theodore Nott, a devout Catholic, praying every evening. Draco remembers envying him the comfort of his belief.

Draco’s not altogether clear on what is involved in Judaism and he still finds her faith in a higher being somewhat unsettling, but quite frankly, what does he care about it so long as she can tell arnica from asphodel and work the till?

“Well,” he says. “I’m hiring an assistant because I need someone to look after the shop while I brew mail orders and replenish stock. So long as you cover a certain number of hours per week, I see no reason why we can’t afford to be a bit flexible with your schedule. Give me a list of days you’ll need off and we’ll work around them. You can bring it to me tomorrow. I’ll expect you to arrive promptly tomorrow morning. The shop opens at nine, and I’d like you here fifteen minutes early. You’ll be here until six and you may take one hour for lunch.”

She blinks at him. “I’ve got the job?”

“You’ve got the job,” he says, shuffling the pages of her application into a neat stack and tapping them against the table. “Were you not able to start so soon?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I can,” she says, still a bit off-balance. Clearly she wasn’t expecting him to hire her outright, which is fair enough since Draco wasn’t expecting to do it, either. She sucks in a breath and sticks out her hand. “I’ll be here. Thank you very much, Mr Malfoy.”

“Draco, please,” he says, shaking her hand as they both stand up. “You’re my only employee. I imagine we’ll be getting to know each other quite well.”

It’s only after she’s gone that Draco realises that he never asked her why she wants to work in his shop in the first place. 

Well. He supposes the answer doesn’t really matter, provided it isn’t along the lines of the two who only planned to be here until the end of summer. He’s hoping for something a little more long-term. Speaking of which, Draco flicks his wand and summons parchment, quill, and ink from below the counter. Best to let the others know the position’s been filled.

* * * * *

The next morning, Draco wakes up earlier than usual. He goes through his normal ablutions, dresses neatly in his favourite set of robes, the charcoal grey ones with the little brass buttons up the front and at the wrists. He makes himself eggs and bacon with fried bread, and has a leisurely meal while perusing a few articles in the latest issue of _Potions Master Quarterly_. When he’s finished, he marks his page, does the washing up, and puts everything back in their cupboards. He puts on his shoes and laces them tightly, and steps out onto the narrow landing just as his clock strikes 8:30.

This is the best part of his day, coming downstairs before opening. The shop is quiet and perfectly in order, the shelves neat and fully-stocked, everything in its proper place. The morning sun slants in through the front windows and down through the enchanted skylights, bathing his shop in bright, clean light. Draco sends a few cleaning charms whisking along the shelves and floor to take care of any dust that may have settled overnight, then aims a few more at the skylights because whoever had charmed them had gone a bit overboard with realism. Dead leaves and dirt build up on the glass and require the regular application of cleaning charms to keep clear. Draco makes it part of his morning routine, along with sweeping off his front step and flipping the sign in the window to ‘Open,’ and he performs it with great resentment. One of these days he’s going to spend an afternoon digging into the charmwork and work out how to disable that particular bit of magic. For now, though, it bothers him enough to grumble about it, but not quite enough for him to expend any effort into fixing.

Although, he thinks as he finishes clearing them off, perhaps he can make this part of Zelda’s duties. He plans to have her work in the mornings. She can take over the task of cleaning skylights that don’t actually exist.

The thought of never having to bother cleaning them again cheers Draco immensely, and he whistles to himself a bit as he wipes down his counter, Vanishes the dust from his doormat, and polishes the glass panes of his windows. Normally this is the point where he counts the till again to double-check that he’d done it properly the night before, checks that he’s got enough small change to get through his day, and ducks across the street to Gringotts if he doesn’t. But today he decides to wait for Zelda. He still plans to open the shop each morning and take care of this himself, but he’d want her to know how to do it should he ever fall ill and need her to open the shop without him.

Instead, he goes out back and checks his letterbox for new orders, and finds an advert informing him that there’s a sale on at Francine’s Fine Furniture and Fixtures. He Vanishes it, then cleans the bottom of his owl cage while the two occupants, a pair of nearly-identical brown owls named Balan and Balin, watch him with big gold eyes.

Back inside, he gets out his diary and notes that he’s expecting two deliveries, and he has five outgoing orders marked down for today. Two will be picked up in the shop, and three need to be sent by owl post. He’s got four of them already done, brewed last night and ready to be sent off, but the last one, a memory potion, has an extremely short shelf life. Once it comes out of the cauldron, it only retains its potency for about six hours. He’ll have to brew that one right before he sends it off.

He’s moved on to contemplating his basket of dragon’s claws—the last batch he got in looks especially nice, perhaps he could make some sort of display with them—when there’s a light tap on the door.

Draco unlocks it and opens it, and Zelda steps inside. She’s got her hair pinned loosely back, her dark red robes have close-fitting sleeves, and she’s wearing sensible shoes. No jewellery that can catch on anything, and he can only see a hint of silver chain where her necklace is tucked securely beneath her collar. She looks ready to brew, and even though Draco has no intention of letting her near a cauldron today, he still wholeheartedly approves. It’s reassuring to see that she takes this seriously.

“Good morning,” he says, shutting the door and locking it again. “You’re two minutes early.”

“Oh, I…”

“I like that,” he says. “Punctuality is important. Come along, now. I’ll show you around.”

The shop is quite small so it doesn’t take long. He goes over how his wares are organised, then shows her the back room and the storage cupboard beneath the stairs and briefly goes over its organisation as well. He shows her the worktable he’s set up and the bottles and jars of bulk-quantity ingredients he uses for brewing. He shows her the tea kettle on its small table in the near corner of his potions lab, explains the Anti-Contamination Wards around it and emphasises that no potions ingredients are to ever be brought over here, but she’s of course more than welcome to use it whenever she’d like. He shows her the small shelf he’s cleared off for her to put her things in, and the hook he’s put up for her to hang her cloak when the weather turns cold. He shows her the filing cabinets in the far corner where he keeps customer records: mail orders, restricted potions and potions with restricted ingredients, invoices for everything he sends out, invoices for everything he orders delivered to the shop. He shows her the big leather-bound ledger with its spreadsheets of all of his inventory, and the long list of his suppliers. He shows her the owl cage out back with its two occupants, the diary he uses to keep track of orders, the request forms customers need to submit, and the paperwork that needs to be filed for anything that falls under Ministry regulations.

Zelda’s looking a little bit overwhelmed at this point and it’s getting close to nine, so he takes her back to the front to count the till. He balances it out every evening after he closes, but it never hurts to double-check. He shows her how to count the coins into neat little stacks lined up on the counter, and where he keeps the change. They’re short on Sickles, so he sends her off with a handful of Galleons to exchange at Gringotts. 

She’s gone for longer than Draco expected, so he opens the shop himself, flips the sign in the window to _Open_ and props open the door because it’s a nice day outside, pleasantly warm with a bit of a breeze. He packages up the two potions to be sent by post that he’s got ready and writes out the addresses on top, and then Zelda returns with the Sickles. A quick swish of Draco’s wand has them sorted into tidy stacks of seventeen and lined up in their drawer beneath the counter, which he locks with a small key he keeps in his pocket. He makes a mental note to duplicate it so Zelda can have a copy while she works. 

“Here,” he says, handing over the two brown-paper-wrapped parcels. “The owls are out back, have them deliver them. Mind your fingers, Balan is friendly enough but Balin tends to nip. Bribe him with treats if he’s being especially difficult.”

The rotten thing. Draco would have returned him to Eeylops in an instant if the pair of them weren’t so obviously devoted to each other, and Draco’s not a monster. He can’t bring himself to separate them, and there’s no reason why one should be punished when it’s the other one who can’t behave himself. The only thing Balan’s done wrong is demonstrate appalling taste in avian companionship.

When Zelda returns, fingers perfectly intact, they’ve got their first customer of the day. Draco lingers behind the counter, listening to Zelda answering questions, and helping her with the till. He only has to step in a few times, mostly for questions of where various things are located because Zelda’s still familiarising herself with the shop’s layout. By lunchtime, he feels she’s got a good enough grasp on things, and Tuesday afternoons tend to be slow enough that he feels comfortable leaving her to mind the front by herself for a few hours. He sends her on her break, risks leaving the floor unattended for the few minutes it takes to run upstairs and make himself up a plate of last night’s leftover roast and veg. He’d strung up a Proximity Charm across the front doorway, a page shamelessly stolen from Dorothea’s book, but he’s able to bolt down his lunch and do the washing up without it going off. Back downstairs, he only has a couple of customers before Zelda comes back.

“Do you feel you’ve an understanding of how the shop runs?” he asks.

She nods, glancing around the empty shop. “I think so?”

“Wonderful. I have a potion to brew that needs to be sent out this afternoon. I’ll be just in the back if you have any questions.” He doubts that will be the case. This Tuesday’s been slower than most, and Zelda’s done exceedingly well for her first day. She’ll be fine. She looks a little uncertain, so he tells her exactly that, “You’ll be fine. And if you need me, all you’ve got to do is shout. But I doubt you’ll face anything worse than Dorothea.”

Zelda’s brows draw together as she asks, “Dorothea?”

“Owns the antique shop across the street. She’s a horrible gossip, so mind that you don’t tell her anything you won’t want repeated to the entirety of Diagon.” He grimaces. “Sometimes she tries to foist her homemade biscuits upon me.”

“Oh,” says Zelda. “Well that doesn’t sound so bad.”

Draco suppresses a shudder. “I’ve seen the state of her shop. I can only imagine the state of her kitchen.”

“Right. Well. Got it,” Zelda says. “Mind the shop, beware Dorothea’s biscuits.”

She gives him a smile and another nod, more confidently this time, and Draco goes back into his lab. She’ll be fine.

Memory Potions aren’t difficult to brew, but they’re very precise, so Draco takes a few minutes to look up his annotated recipe and make sure he’s got it straight in his head before he begins. He gets out his favourite knife and runs a quick Honing Charm over the blade, casts cleaning charms over his worktable, cutting board, cauldron, knife, wand, and hands. And he’s ready to begin.

Already, he feels his mind slipping into a pleasant sort of calm. He lights the flame beneath the cauldron and pours in two ounces of bat blood to begin heating, then carefully weighs out two grams of mandrake root and quickly reduces it to a pile of fine slivers. The bat blood is beginning to bubble by the time he finishes, and Draco drops the root in and reduces the flame. Then he retrieves a carton of common field mushrooms and piles them on one side of his cutting board, adds two false deathcaps to the stack, and sets about dicing them into tiny cubes.

This is his favourite part of brewing. There’s something deeply soothing about reducing a stack of ingredients to small, uniform pieces. He finishes dicing just as the cauldron’s beginning to release faint curls of tangy steam. Draco dumps the mushrooms in, gives them a good stir, and when they’re just beginning to sweat he quickly adds the rest of the ingredients, finishing with a generous glug of flobberworm mucus. The recipe doesn’t call for it, but he finds it thickens the brew up quite nicely. He turns up the heat and takes a breath.

This is the most delicate part. The potion requires fifty slow and even stirs, and then the flame must be reduced at once. Too quick and the potion will separate; too slow and it will curdle. He dips his wand into the cauldron and guides it in the first slow anti-clockwise circle, and murmurs, “One,” beneath his breath.

He’s counted to ten when here’s a light tap at the door, and Zelda pokes her head in. “Ah, Draco?”

Draco grits his teeth and keeps stirring, visualising each number to help him keep count. “What,” he says flatly.

Zelda slips through the door, holding it ajar behind her with one hand. “Your mum’s out the front.”

Bloody hell, Narcissa has the worst timing. Seventeen, eighteen. “I’m not here.”

“Oh,” Zelda says, glancing back at the door. She hesitates. “But…”

“Tell her _I’m not here_ ,” Draco repeats, and Zelda looks reluctant, but she nods and goes back out into the shop

Twenty-one, twenty-two. The door clicks shut behind her and Draco settles back into stirring, letting the slow counting lull him a bit. This is his second favourite part of brewing. Knifework will always be his first favourite, but there’s something soothing about stirring, counting slow beneath his breath, drawing his wand around and around the cauldron in slow, hypnotic circles. A sense of satisfaction lodges firmly behind his ribs. There’s nothing he loves more in the world than watching a difficult potion come together flawlessly.

Another light tap on the door sends his thoughts scattering and he nearly loses count.

“Draco?”

It’s Zelda again.

“I told you—” he begins.

“Right,” she cuts him off. “I passed that along. And then your mum told me that I’m a terrible liar and asked me again to come fetch you.”

The way she trips over the word _asked_ tells Draco that Zelda’s trying to be polite. _Demanded_ would probably be more accurate. _Ordered. Commanded._ Narcissa Malfoy is a woman who’s accustomed to her every word being obeyed at once and without question.

“Tell her I’m busy,” he says. Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven.

Zelda hesitates again before going back out into the shop, but she doesn’t argue with him.

He settles back into the rhythm of stirring.

“Draco?”

“Oh for the love of Merlin,” Draco snaps. He can’t leave the potion now, if he stops stirring he’ll ruin it. “Tell her I’m really quite busy and if it’s so important she’ll need to come back here to talk to me.”

Zelda goes off again and Draco keeps stirring. A minute later, the door opens again and Narcissa sweeps in.

“Well, isn’t she precious,” she says, glancing significantly back at the door to the shop. “She’s, what, Ravenclaw? They never could tell a lie to save their lives.”

“She went to Beauxbatons, actually,” Draco says.

“Oh,” Narcissa says, lip curling a little. “Whyever would her family send here _there_ , I wonder. Is she a half-blood, or is she from a proper family?”

And bloody hell, it’s his first time off to Hogwarts all over again. The gentle admonishments to only surround himself with the right sort of people, reminders about House loyalties and blood status, and for the love of Merlin haven’t they moved beyond all that nonsense yet?

“Mother, don’t terrorise my employee,” Draco says firmly, because he’s half-afraid Narcissa is going to go out there and start interrogating Zelda. With his luck, Narcissa will catch sight of Zelda’s necklace, and Draco doesn’t even want to know what would happen if it gets back to Lucius that Draco’s hired a religious girl. “Did you actually need something from me?”

She arches her eyebrows and looks down her nose at him in the way that makes him feel about five years-old. “Do I need a reason to see my only son?”

“You see me all the time,” Draco grumbles.

He reaches fifty and removes his wand from the cauldron for the scant instant it takes for him to turn the flame down, then goes back to stirring. He doesn’t have to count for this part, just keep his clockwise turns slow and even until the bubbling green potion turns a brilliant turquoise.

“I see you four times per month.”

“More often than when I was at Hogwarts,” he points out.

Narcissa’s silent for a long moment, but Draco’s knows better than to think the conversation’s over. Sure enough, she sighs. “Darling, I worry about you.”

He gives her an incredulous stare. “Have I given you reason to worry about me? The shop’s doing well, even better than I’d anticipated.”

“There’s more to life than just the shop, Draco.” She sighs again. “I had tea with Mrs Parkinson recently and she mentioned that you haven’t seen Pansy in a while.”

Draco frowns into his cauldron. The green is starting to lighten, it won’t be long now until the color turns. He keeps stirring, slow and even, around and around.

“Have you seen any of your friends recently?” Narcissa presses.

He wants to point out that he’s been busy. That he hasn’t got time for socialising right now. But he’s an adult; he doesn’t owe her any explanation or excuse for what he does or doesn’t do.

“I’m not a child,” he says. He doesn’t look up, but he knows she’s staring at him. He can feel the weight of her gaze. “You don’t need to monitor my interactions.”

He can still feel her watching. After a long moment, she says, “I worry.”

“You needn’t.”

“I’m your mother, darling; I’ll always worry.”

He hasn’t got a response to that, so he keeps stirring.

“Very well, then,” she says briskly. “While I’m here, I might as well replenish my stock of headache potions.”

“Take whatever you need from the shop,” he says, grateful for the sudden change in topic. “Tell Zelda I said you could.”

“I’ll take three. And how much will that be?” she asks, snapping open her handbag.

“Mother, I’m not taking your Galleons.” Sickles, too late Draco realises he should have said _Sickles_.

“Don’t be absurd, Draco,” she says tartly. “You’re running a business here, aren’t you? Right now I’m a customer.” Sure enough, she removes a stack of Galleons from her purse, enough to pay for her purchase ten times over.

“If you were a customer, you’d have sent in your order by owl,” he points out. “Or purchased them from Zelda, who is perfectly capable of doing so, you know. After all, it’s what she’s here for.”

“Hm.” Narcissa glances back to the door again. “Perhaps I also wanted to meet this young lady with whom you’ll be spending so much of your time.”

“You make it sound like we’re carrying on some sort of clandestine affair,” Draco grumbles. “I’m spending time with her because I’m paying her to work in my shop.”

Narcissa huffs a little and snaps her purse shut again. “And I suppose I ought to be grateful you’re spending time with anyone at all.”

Draco grits his teeth, exhales slowly through his nose.

The potion turns a perfect turquoise. Draco removes his wand and reduces the flame beneath the cauldron, tucks his wand up his sleeve and turns to face his mother. He plans to tell her to kindly stop trying to poke her nose into his life, but there’s something in her eyes that brings him up short. Abruptly he’s reminded of that night after the Battle of Hogwarts when she confessed in a shocky whisper what she’d done. How she’d lied to the Dark Lord for fear of her son. He remembers the way her hands clutched at him, holding him close like he’d vanish the instant she let go, the numbed disbelief in her voice when she told her story. He remembers the cold rush of horror, because she’d _lied to the Dark Lord_ , a highly skilled Legilimens. He could have killed her, he could have—

Draco reins in his spiralling throughs. After what they’ve all been through, he can understand why she worries, even though he’s not likely to face much of any danger here. Misbrewing a potion, perhaps, there’s always the danger of his cauldron exploding. But Draco is careful and knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t blown up a cauldron since his second year, and that was Pansy’s fault, anyway. These days, his biggest fear is getting nipped by his owl.

And if that’s the worst he’s got to fear, then life is good, isn’t it, because it’s not as if a bird presents any real danger to him.

His life is good. He’s settled. He’s content. He has everything he needs and he wishes his mother would accept his word for that. He’s _fine_.

But she worries, so instead he offers, “With Zelda minding the shop for me, it shouldn’t take me too long to catch up on my mail orders. I think I’ll be free for dinner on Thursday.”

Narcissa smiles at him. “I’ll tell your father. He’ll be delighted.” She gives him a critical look. “He worries about you too, you know. He’s just better at hiding it than I am.”

Draco opens his mouth, and closes it again. He’d known that, from the number of ‘your mother’ comments he’s received from Lucius lately. He’s always had a tendency to pin his more softhearted sensibilities on his wife. Draco’s learnt to read between the lines.

“I know,” he says softly, then draws himself up. “Come on, I’ll see you out.”

The potion will keep for a few minutes, and Draco really ought to check on Zelda, anyhow. He opens the door, and then follows Narcissa out.

* * * * *

One month after Zelda begins work in Draco’s shop, he gives her a key and lets her open up by herself. He keeps himself busy in the back room brewing for mail orders, and can make himself immediately available should she need him for anything, and every time he checks on her, she seems to be doing perfectly fine. He always makes sure he finishes in time to relieve her for a lunch break. And after the second week, he even manages to brew a whole potion before finding excuses to come out into the shop to check on her.

She does so well that two months after Zelda begins work, Draco goes with Lucius to the Quidditch International Finals. It’s held on a Monday so he doesn’t have to worry about the shop for most of the time he’ll be away, even though Zelda will be opening the apothecary on her own tomorrow morning.

Wales thrashes the United States, winning 550-210. It’s some of the finest flying Draco’s ever seen, impressive and daring in a way that turns his vague nostalgia about Quidditch into something sharp and aching. He hasn’t so much as sat his arse on a broomstick since he left Hogwarts, never mind gone after a Snitch. He should make time for it. His Mondays are mostly his own, these days, though he visits the Manor each Monday afternoon. It’d be nice to spend a few hours up in the air.

The crowd roars suddenly as one of the Wales Chasers puts another Quaffle neatly through the hoops. Yes, he’s certainly missed this. The screaming enthusiasm of the crowd at a good match is contagious, even now that he’s just here as a spectator. And as always, Quidditch makes him think of Potter. Draco wonders whether he’s here. He hasn’t seen any hint in the _Prophet_ that he would be in attendance, though sometimes Potter manages to keep his personal life private. But if Potter has come to the International Finals, his path never crosses Draco’s, and in any case, with the teeming crowds they could pass within a few feet of each other and never know. 

After the match, he and Lucius return to their tent and spend a couple of hours talking about the game, and speculating about next season. Draco’s jaw has begun to ache from all the yawns he’s been suppressing by the time he finally says goodnight and tumbles into bed. His last thought before sleep is worry about Zelda tending the shop alone tomorrow morning.

But as it turns out, he needn’t have bothered. When Draco returns the following day, he finds everything in perfect order and Zelda in good spirits.

“See? Everything here’s been fine,” she says cheerfully when he walks in, and indeed it is. The shop is clean and everything is exactly as it should be.

“Very well, enjoy your _I-told-you-so_ ,” he mutters.

“I didn’t say it. You’re the one who said it,” says Zelda. Lately she’s been increasingly unaffected by the sour looks he sends her and the way he, despite his better efforts, sometimes tends to snap at her. It took most of the first month for her to stop acting so bloody stiff around him, nervous and determined by turns. Now she’s finally starting to open up a little more, a bit of teasing here, a bit of cheek there. It’s something of a relief, in a way. It’s harder to feel guilty for snapping at someone if all they do is roll their eyes and sometimes make snippy comments right back at him.

“You’re thinking it,” he says. He swishes his wand and sends his bag zooming off to deposit itself at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to come and empty it and put it properly away.

“A Legilimens, now, are you?” she asks, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I’ve no need to read your mind, it’s written all over your face.” Tea. He needs tea. He’d skipped his morning cuppa in the interest of an earlier Portkey, though it turns out he needn’t have, as the shop is deserted. Lucius has wanted Draco to stay and have breakfast with him, and Draco rather wishes he had. “Have you had any trouble this morning? Have many customers been in?”

“Everything was fine. You know how slow Tuesdays are.” She’s rolling her eyes at him again.

He gives her a sour look. “Well pardon me for taking an interest in the running of my own bloody shop.”

“Have you had your tea this morning? Go and make yourself a cup, you’re always a bear if you haven’t had your tea.” She gives him a little nudge toward the back room.

Draco’s sour look turns into a scowl because there is nothing, _nothing in the world_ , that Draco hates more than being told to do something he was already planning to do in the first place. He stares at Zelda. Zelda stares at him right back.

“I ought to fire you,” he grumbles after a moment.

She stiffens, then frowns and blinks at him. “You’re not serious.”

He gives her another scowl that’s only a bit exaggerated. “I might be. Keep pressing your luck and you’ll find out.”

“Hmph,” she says. Now that she’s sure he doesn’t really mean it, she’s smirking a little as she folds her arms over her chest and says, “Well, if you fired me, then you’d have to clean the magical skylights yourself.”

“I did that long before you came along,” Draco says.

“And hated it,” Zelda says. “You still complain that you have to do it on my day off.”

Draco stares at her. “How on earth do you know that?”

Zelda shrugs. “Dorothea.”

That brings him up short. “You talk about me with Dorothea?”

Zelda shrugs again. “Sometimes, if Mr and Mrs Hobbs are having a quiet day. She likes to watch you through the front windows. Apparently you’re quite entertaining when you think you’re alone. Lots of scowling and grumbling to yourself, according to Dorothea.”

Of course she does, Merlin save him from voyeuristic old women.

He gives Zelda a narrow-eyed stare. “You know, I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me.”

“I was never afraid of you,” Zelda says. “Despite the rumours.”

“Rumours?”

“Oh. That, you know, that you were…” She hesitates, and her eyes flicker to his left arm. Too late, she seems to realise that she’s turned their lighthearted conversation down a more serious path. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business—”

“I was,” Draco says. His left arm is itching and he resists the urge to rub at it. “You were in France. You missed the worst of it. But I was.”

She nods a little. “Anthony told me. He about hit the roof when he found out I’d come to work for you. He said—Well, he said a lot of things.”

Draco can only imagine what sort of things Goldstein had said in an effort to warn her off. There’s not exactly a shortage. Draco had been quite horrible to him at school. He hadn’t gone out of his way to make Goldstein’s life miserable, the way he had with Potter. But if Goldstein was there and Draco was bored, well. He certainly hadn’t held back.

“I’m going to go put the kettle on,” he says quietly, and escapes this conversation.

* * * * *

Things are a little awkward between them for the next few days, and Draco has no idea how much of it is coming from Zelda, and how much of it is from Zelda picking up on his own awkwardness and not knowing how to respond to it. But they fall easily back into their routine, and then everything is back to normal. Days pass into weeks. Summer withers away as the weather turns cool. The leaves burst into riotous colour, and things continue on.

Despite knowing that he desperately needed one, Draco had initially been reluctant to hire an assistant for the shop. He’d put it off as long as he realistically could, wary of having someone he didn’t know from Merlin in his shop, in his routine, in his life. Dorothea complains often about whoever’s most recent in the seemingly-endless parade of shop assistants she hires. He’d been understandably hesitant about hiring one of his own.

But Zelda’s been fantastic so far, even better than Draco had dared hope for. She’s neat and polite and careful around the shop, and over the few months they’ve been spending time together, Draco’s come to genuinely like her. She’s friendly, and she’s clever, and she’s hard-working, and above all she’s _punctual_.

Which is why, one overcast Thursday morning in October, Draco finds himself worrying when the clock strikes a quarter til nine and he has yet to hear her arrive. This is when her shift begins, but she usually turns up a little past 8:30, takes her time making herself a cuppa and chatting with him for a few minutes where he’s getting his things ready for brewing in the back room before she goes out into front of the shop and begins getting it ready to start the day.

It’s fine, Draco tells himself. Zelda is sometimes a few minutes late. This isn’t the first time she’s arrived a little later than usual. Certainly she’ll be here by nine. She’s never once not been here in time to open the shop.

At ten to, Draco gives up straining his ears listening for her key in the lock and goes out into the front. He’s been meaning to reorganise the amphibious ingredients section. He’s got it alphabetical now, but he thinks the vials of salamander blood will look nicer over to the left, and perhaps he ought to move the jars of frog eggs down to the bottom shelf. He moves everything around, then decides he doesn’t like it and moves everything back again.

At five to, Draco counts the till, checks the small coins, and sends a few cleaning charms whisking about the shelves and tables. He polishes the windows, and Vanishes the dust from the doormat, and wipes down the counter, and checks the letterbox. No new orders, and no word from Zelda. He goes across the street to exchange a few Galleons for Sickles, and Grabthar the Goblin is as surly as ever. Draco pastes on a smile and keeps up a one-sided rambling conversation about the weather because inane conversation annoys Grabthar, and he always counts much faster in an effort to get Draco to go away. He takes his pouch of Sickles back across the street and lets himself eagerly inside his shop. It’s still empty.

At nine, Draco flips the sign to _Open_ and unlocks the door. At five past, he reluctantly cleans the skylights. At a quarter past, he gives up trying to force himself to stay behind the counter, and paces back and forth across his floor, and the hell with whether Dorothea is watching. Yesterday evening, Zelda mentioned meeting some of her old Beauxbatons friends who were in town for a while. What if something happened to her? What if there was an accident? Should he send an owl to check on her? What if she doesn’t respond? Then what will he do?

He’s saved from any further anxious what-ifs by Zelda herself. She pushes inside, wincing a little as the bells strung up on the door cheerfully herald her arrival.

“Where on earth have you been?” he demands.

“Oh,” she says, wincing again. “Not so loud, please.”

That brings Draco up short, and for the first time he takes in her somewhat-worse-for-wear appearance. Her hair isn’t as neatly pinned back as she normally keeps it, and her robes are buttoned up wrong, with an extra buttonhole at the top and an extra button at the bottom. In fact, she looks a little bit green about the gills.

He frowns at her. “Are you quite all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says, shrugging out of her cloak and heading for the back room. “I’m very sorry I’m running late today. I’ll stay after, if you need me to make up time.”

“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asks, following her into the back. “You look ill. And your robes are done up wrong.”

Zelda hangs her cloak on its hook and looks down at herself. “Bugger,” she says, and goes into the lavatory to fix it.

“Are you ill?” Draco calls through the closed door. “If you’re ill, you’re allowed to stay home, you know.” He doesn’t want her getting him sick if she’s contagious.

“I know,” she replies, her voice coming through the door muffled and a little echoey. “Despite your best efforts, I’ve worked out by now that you’re not actually a monster.”

He scowls at the door. “I mean it. Go home if you’re ill.”

The door swings open and she comes back out, robes righted. “I told you, I’m fine. Really.” She won’t quite meet his eyes as she tries to push past him.

Belatedly, the half-guilty, half-embarrassed look on her face lines up with her peaky appearance and the fact she had plans out last night. He stops her with a hand to her elbow. “Wait. Are you hungover?”

Zelda sighs. “I’m fine, it’s not that bad. And I apologise for being late. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope it won’t, though for your sake, not mine,” Draco says, and means it. He’s made the mistake of drinking too much a few times in his life. Not recently, but how horrible he felt afterward isn’t something he’ll soon forget. “Well, take a Hangover Potion from the front and make yourself a cup of tea while it takes effect.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she says.

“Don’t be absurd,” he tells her. “You’re clearly feeling unwell. Take the potion and—”

“I can’t,” she interrupts.

He blinks, then frowns. “You can’t?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “It’s not kosher.”

Zelda goes back out into the front of the shop, and Draco follows her, still frowning. He’d known that Jewish people couldn’t eat certain things, but he’d never connected the dots and thought that some of those things might be in potions.

For a moment, he tries to work out if his question could be considered rude, then figures that in her delicate state, Zelda will probably tell him to stuff it if she doesn’t want to answer, so he goes ahead and asks, “Then how are you able to work here? You handle all sorts of things here.”

“I’m not Orthodox,” Zelda tells him. “I’m not as strict as I could be.” She grimaces a bit. “Or _should_ be, according to my great-great-aunt Esther.”

She hasn’t told him to stuff it yet, so he asks, “What sorts of things are off-limits for you?”

Zelda sighs and rattles off an impressive list of things, and Draco mentally compares them to his inventory.

“I hadn’t realised so many potions ingredients are things you can’t have,” Draco says, glancing around at his shelves. “What do you do if you need a potion that’s got something in it you can’t take?”

“There are alternate recipes for some things. We use Muggle medicines for others. Exceptions can be made if a person’s life is in danger, but a lot of things we just go without. Hangovers aren’t exactly life-threatening.” She shrugs. “We manage.”

Draco frowns. “Well that’s ridiculous. Why hasn’t someone worked out alternatives?”

“Not a priority for most wizards, is it?” she points out. “There aren’t enough of us to make it worthwhile, I suppose. It’s not exactly profitable.” She rubs at her temples. “Can we have this chat later when I’m not feeling like death?”

“We can have it tomorrow. Go home.”

Zelda looks enormously tempted, but she insists, “Really, I’m fine to work. I feel ridiculous going home for something that’s my fault in the first place.”

“Yes, but this is a mistake we all make at one point or another. I certainly have,” Draco sighs. “And as I know from unfortunate past experience how horrible you must feel right now, I’m insisting that you go.”

She clearly wants to leave, but she still hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Draco arches an eyebrow, then reaches past her to press the button to open the till. The drawer pops open with a sharp _ding!_ and a loud metallic _thunk_.

Zelda flinches away from the sound, wincing. “All right, all right. You’ve made your point.”

He pushes the drawer shut again as gently as he’s able. “Go home, Zelda. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After she leaves, he consults his diary. He didn’t have much brewing to do today, thankfully, and the potions he does need to finish are all fairly easy. It won’t take him more than a few hours this evening to get himself caught up again.

His day is almost entirely unremarkable, apart from when Dorothea stops by in the afternoon and looks ostensibly around before she asks, “No Zelda today?”

“She was in for a bit this morning,” Draco says, knowing full-well that Dorothea probably already knows that. “But she was feeling a bit under the weather, the poor dear, so I sent her home to rest.”

“I do hope it’s not serious,” Dorothea says, clearly hinting for more information.

Draco gives her a placid smile. “It didn’t seem to be.”

A pair of witches come in just then, and Draco steps away to help them. Their questions about bat blood take long enough that Dorothea goes back to her own shop, and doesn’t get a chance to come back over before Draco closes up, which is a shame because at one point a wizard comes into his shop grumbling about ‘indecent displays’ and Draco’s fairly certain that means Mr and Mrs Hobbs have made up again. But the mystery will have to wait until tomorrow.

He locks up and then goes through his closing chores: he counts the till and fills in his ledger, sets aside a stack of Galleons to deposit at Gringotts tomorrow, sends cleaning charms over the floor and shelves, wipes the counter, polishes the till, sends more cleaning charms into all the nooks and crannies of his shop, along the skirting boards and up into the corners of the ceilings, checks his letterbox one last time, and checks that his owl cage is unlatched so Balan and Balin can go out and find their supper. He checks over the charms that keep his shelves neat and organised to make sure they’re still working properly, and restocks to fill the empty spaces from what he’d sold, checks his stock, and fills out a few orders to send off tomorrow.

It’s past seven o’clock by the time he finishes. Rather than going straight into his back room to begin brewing, Draco decides to take a bit of a break, have a nice walk and get himself out of the shop for a while. He Summons a cloak and clasps it around his shoulders and steps outside, locking the door securely after himself.

This stretch of Diagon is all shops, and tends to go quiet in the evening as everyone closes down and goes home for the day. He ambles along, hands tucked into his pockets to keep them warm against the chill of the evening. He nods politely to the few people he passes, and draws in deep breaths of cold, fresh air. Much as Draco loves his shop, it’s always nice to get out of it for a while at the end of the day. With that many potions ingredients packed into such a small space, it tends to smell a bit strong. 

Some people find it a bit too much to be pleasant, sharply medicinal with all the bunches of dried herbs he keeps around. Lucius in particular always wears a pinched expression on the rare occasions he visits, like he’s got his nose stuck in a heap of dragon’s dung. (Which Draco does sell, but it’s packaged securely in airtight jars.) It’s one of the hazards of an apothecary, and Air Freshening Charms can only do so much. Draco doesn’t think it smells bad, and indeed most of the time he barely even notices it until he steps outside and it’s suddenly gone. But it’s good to clear his nose, because he’ll walk back into his shop with fresh sense. Even though it’s not his favourite smell in the world, it’s comfortingly familiar. Something about it strikes a chord deep in his brain that makes him think, _Home_.

Draco skirts around a puddle and contemplates stopping off at the market. He’s been eating the same beef stew for a couple of days—the problem with cooking for one—and even though it’s quite good, if he does say so himself, he’s growing a bit tired of it. Something different tonight might be nice.

Most of the vendors have gone for the evening when he reaches the large warehouse that serves as an indoor market, but he manages to buy a butternut squash from a wizard who’s still in the process of packing his leftover wares. Draco plans to turn it into soup, because that can cook by itself on the stove while he gets some brewing done. The forecast predicts rain tonight, and soup always tastes particularly good when the weather is bad.

The wind’s started to pick up a little when Draco steps outside. Dead leaves scuttle over the cobblestones, chattering dryly as they go. Draco casts a Warming Charm over his cloak and sets off for home.

On a whim, he pops into Flourish & Blotts. It’s ten minutes to closing, and the wizard behind the till gives him a long-suffering look as he comes in. Draco knows exactly how it feels to have someone come in so close to closing, so he gives an apologetic smile.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, and indeed he’s found what he’d come in for, paid for it, and is back out on the street in under five minutes. What Zelda had said this morning about not being able to take certain potions had stuck with him, and he’s got more questions about what’s allowed and what isn’t. He’s reluctant to interrogate her about it, and in any case it’s not her job to educate him, is it? So he’s found a couple of books that should hopefully clear things up. He tucks them into the crook of his arm and turns down the street toward his shop.

* * * * *

He reads the books over the next several days, and finishes feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the startling minutiae of rules. He checks around through some of his suppliers and writes to a few different apothecaries to get a feel for what’s available for Jewish witches and wizards, but it seems that there’s a noticeable lack of options. And quite frankly, many of the options that do exist are less effective or have more side-effects. 

Draco’s reasonably confident that he can do better.

He begins with the Hangover Potion, since that’s what started all of this. It’ll be easier than most as a first step. It doesn’t contain any rare ingredients, and in fact most of its contents are quite common. The brewing process is easy and quick. And, like most other potions meant to treat simple physical ailments, it’s not extraordinarily magical in nature. It’s a good starting point.

He writes out a list of the ingredients, and marks which ones he’ll need to substitute. Having it all laid out like this certainly puts the complexity of this task in stark perspective. He’ll have to replace nearly a full third of the ingredients. It’s hard enough getting the mixture to balance again after he gets rid of one; replacing this many is practically impossible.

Draco rolls up his sleeves and gives it a try anyhow, spends a full morning and part of the afternoon working the arithmancy on it, consulting thick tomes of potions theory, writing and rewriting the recipe. He comes up with some ideas, breaks for tea, then hauls out his cauldrons and gives it a try.

From there, it only takes thirty minutes and three botched potions to confirm what he’d known straight off: his usual methods aren’t going to work on this scale. Draco mulls it over as he dumps his cauldrons into the cast-iron work sink and scrubs at them with a stiff brush. Once he’s cleaned out the last baked-on dregs of potion, he lathers up a soft cloth with a bar of Spell-B-Gone Cauldron Soap and carefully washes every inch of the cauldron’s interior to neutralise any lingering magic from the previous brewing. Draco likes this part of it. The Cauldron Soap smells pleasantly of lemons and the scent lingers on his hands afterward.

Two of the cauldrons clean up easily, but the third disastrous attempt had left the inside of his last cauldron coated in a stubborn gunk that refuses to come off. Draco eventually gives up and _Scourgifies_ the shit out of it, and then washes it again with soap and sets it aside, grumbling all the while. _Scourgify_ in particular tends to leave a stubborn residue of magic that no amount of scrubbing the the Cauldron Soap can completely cut through. He’ll be brewing simple potions in this one for a while yet, until the spell residue wears off on its own.

He does more research, more arithmancy, and works through more theory. His next attempts don’t fare any better. Not that he’d really expected them to, but he’s at rather a loss for where to go from here. All he’s done so far is ruin his record for how long it’s been since he’d last blown up a cauldron. Though on the bright side, after all the scrubbing and _Scourgifying_ , his potions lab is cleaner than ever.

It’s not until one utterly unremarkable Wednesday evening when he’s stirring a simmering pot of tomato soup that it occurs to him that perhaps he’s been approaching the problem from the wrong angle. Right now he’s trying to replace a third of the ingredients and keep the rest. But why keep any? Why not start entirely from scratch?

He works until the small hours of the morning, parsing through theory and calculating probabilities before he gives up, slams his books shut, puts them back into their places on the shelves, and goes to bed.

And in the morning he wakes up and the answer is there in the forefront of his mind, so obvious he has no idea why it’s taken this long for him to figure it out.

He needs to approach each ingredient on its own. It’s taking Golpalott’s Third Law and reapplying the theory behind it. If he approaches each ingredient as a ‘poison’ and works out an ‘antidote’ for it, the substance he’ll end up with will be an alchemically perfect balance for whichever ingredient he’s trying to replace. And once he’s got that, it’ll be child’s play to apply Paracelsus’s Principle to reverse its properties, and he’ll end up with a flawless substitute.

It’ll still be a challenge to do it with his restricted ingredients list. And it’ll be a long and involved process, where creating one alternate version of a potion will require him brewing four other potions before it. But for the first time, Draco feels like this really can be done.

He rushes through his morning ablutions, and instead of fried eggs he starts heating a pot of water for soft-boiled eggs, that way he can read through a thick tome about Alchemy while he waits for the water to boil. He’ll start with the frog eyes, he thinks. That’ll probably be easiest. 

He can’t wait to begin.

* * * * *

It takes him six months to work out replacement formulas for each non-kosher ingredient in Hangover Potion. Draco drinks most of a bottle of wine that evening to celebrate, and the following morning gives him a convenient opportunity to test his potion.

It works perfectly.


	3. Chapter 3

After his initial success with the Hangover Potion, Draco continues to produce formulas for other alchemically-perfect substitutes. Creating the substitutions to get that first potion working had taken him nearly six months, but a lot of that had been working out how exactly to go about creating working substitutes, and he’d assumed that going forward he’d be able to work through each additional formula more quickly as he learned from his mistakes. But his progress remains painfully slow and his breakthroughs are frustratingly few and far between.

Zelda assists where she can, and several times she helps him push through a particularly tricky bit of theory, but her knowledge and talents at potions largely overlap with Draco’s, and she isn’t able to do much that Draco can’t do for himself. Plus, he still needs her to mind the shop, and that takes up much of her time.

He’s complaining about an experiment gone wrong for the third time in as many days when Zelda looks thoughtful and says, “You know, I might know someone who can help.”

The next day, she puts him in contact with an older gentleman named David—apparently Zelda’s great-great-aunt Esther had gone to Hogwarts with him about eighty years ago—who’s got an apothecary in Leeds. He’d been pursuing a very similar approach to replacing unwanted ingredients, it turns out, and much like Draco, after the initial breakthrough with some of the easier ingredients, he’s only had a middling success with the rest of them. They correspond mostly via Floo Connection, though they have met in person a few times, and Draco likes him quite a lot. He’s got the air of a kindly grandfather, with a big white beard and little round glasses. He wears a yarmulke perched on the back of his head and he smiles a lot. Working together and pooling their research, they’re able to work through most of the troublesome ingredients that had confounded them both. 

Even collaborating, it takes them the better part of a year to get enough substitutions figured out and the formulas submitted for Ministry approval that they can begin selling potions made from them. Currently, the list of available potions is quite limited, but Draco hopes to at least double it by this time next year.

Draco had spoken to Dorothea early on in his research and arranged to rent an unused corner of her basement as a secondary potions lab with its own separate set of equipment, to eliminate any fear of cross-contamination. He’d walled it off into its own little room and connected it to his own lab with a set of magical doors so that he didn’t have to go out onto the street to move between them. He sells some of the kosher potions through his own shop, about as many as David sells through his own shop, and it’s quite convenient to always have each other’s apothecary to which they can direct customers if one of them is out of something. His working relationship with David continues to flourish, and as much as Draco has always loved experimenting with formulas, it’s even more enjoyable to have a partner to work with on it right alongside him, trade ideas and theories back and forth.

And everything is going well. Draco’s shop is turning a tidy profit, everyone in his life is happy and healthy. He has a very nice routine, working his regular shop hours, dinner with his parents once a week, the occasional drink out with his Slytherin housemates, though that’s happening less and less often these days as their interests and careers continue to diverge post-Hogwarts.

This might not be the life he’d have imagined for himself once upon a time, but it’s his and honestly he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of course, even as well as things are going, there are still parts of it that he doesn’t love quite so much.

And right now, one of them is Zelda.

She’s currently smiling at him, holding a clay pot a safe distance from her body to keep the fanged geranium well out of biting range. There’s a large ribbon tied into an elaborate bow around the pot, the same bold red as the geranium’s flowers.

“I’m uncertain as to whether I ought to be flattered or offended that you’ve brought me a plant capable of maiming,” he says, making no move to take it. Draco hasn’t been around a fanged geranium since fifth year when, during one fateful Herbology class, Pansy had carelessly leaned too close to its pot and one had bitten her squarely on her rather ample bosom. She’d panicked, and Draco had had to pry it off her, and afterward it was hard to say which of them had been more traumatised by the experience.

“Flattered, definitely flattered,” Zelda says, still smiling. She holds the pot out a little closer to him, and he takes a step back. “Happy Apothecary Anniversary.”

He frowns at her. “How on earth do you know that?” She certainly didn’t mention anything last year, and he’s never bothered to tell her precisely which day three years ago he’d opened his door for business.

Zelda shrugs, and the geranium sways toward her at the motion. “Your mother mentioned it when she stopped in the other day.”

Draco sighs. “Of course she did. Well.” He folds his arms over his chest and jerks his chin at the windowsill where it’ll get plenty of sunlight. “Go put it over there.”

“Scared of it?” she teases dryly, crossing the room to set the plant on the windowsill.

“With excellent reason,” he says, and then before she can ask him to elaborate, he adds, “You do realise you’re responsible for taking care of it.”

“I assumed I would be,” she says, nudging it a little this way, a little that way, and then just a smidge to the left so it sits in the very center of the windowsill. “Wouldn’t have bought it for you if I’d minded.” She flicks her wand at the ceiling and cleans the sky lights.

“Right. Well. I’ll leave you to it,” he says as she makes her way around the shop casting spells to get it ready for opening, dusting the shelves and polishing the windows and Vanishing the dust from the doormat. Draco pauses in the doorway to the back room. “Zelda.” He waits until she looks over at him, and gives her a small smile. “Thank you.”

She smiles and waves him off. “Go on,” she says. “Some of us have got work to do this morning.” She turns away and aims a Polishing Charm at the till.

He’s lucky to have Zelda. She remains the best business decision he’s ever made, bar none. She runs the front of his shop beautifully, deals with difficult customers with a grace and aplomb the likes of which Draco has never quite been able to achieve himself, and is brilliant at arranging ingredients into attractive displays to keep the stock moving. She oversees his backstock, and has taken over the inventory and ordering entirely, wrangling his complex system of ledgers and spreadsheets into something even he’s forced to admit is much more manageable. She’s ruthless when it comes to quality control, and at one point Draco strongly suspects she’d made Henri cry for shipping over a bad batch of Exploding Fluid. But most importantly, she takes absolutely none of Draco’s shite.

He’ll probably never admit it aloud, but he’d be entirely lost without her at this point.

He’s fairly certain she’s well aware of it, in any case. At this point he’s paying her as more of a partner than an employee and gives her enormous leeway in running the day-to-day aspects of the shop however she sees fit.

Draco leaves her to performing the morning chores and goes into his lab to perform his own. He casts a few idle cleaning charms over his worktable as he passes by, then steps outside and checks the letterbox. He’s received three envelopes since he checked his post last night, and tucks them beneath his armpit while he sees to his owls. Balan hoots softly and shuffles a little closer to the door of the hutch, clearly angling for attention, but Balin’s sitting right beside him and Draco has high hopes of making it through his morning without getting bitten by anything. Draco casts cleaning charms over the bottom of the hutch where someone’s disemboweled a field mouse with no regard for the sorry arsehole wizard who’s stuck cleaning up after him. Balin watches Draco the whole time, and Draco gives him a glare.

“Enjoy yourself now, because I’m sending you off to Cornwall this afternoon,” he mutters before going back inside.

He opens his post. Two are requests for custom potions, and one’s a colourful lettering and a cheerful font informing him that he might have already won a brand-new racing broom. He Vanishes that one, writes out replies to the other two thanking them for their business and informing them that he’ll have their orders delivered within three to five days. He enters those orders into his diary, checks what he’s got scheduled for today, and turns to his worktable to begin brewing.

* * * * *

Draco has just finished decanting a Boil Cure into a glass vial when Zelda bumps the door open with her hip and calls in, “Draco, your mother’s here.”

“Well tell her—”

“I’ve already told her you’re here,” she says before he can finish his sentence because, damn her, she knew exactly what he was going to say. And then she steps away and lets the door swing shut before he can respond.

He jams a stopper into the vial and dumps the empty cauldron into the sink, pauses to give the simmering Sleeping Draught a stir before he wipes off his wand and tucks it back up his sleeve, takes a deep breath, and steps out into the shop.

Narcissa is waiting for him by the drawers of bulk herbs, deep in conversation with Zelda. When he gets near, he can hear her talking about how Draco refused to touch the fanged geranium.

“You know, I liked you a lot better when you were scared of my mother,” he says when he reaches them. He hopes he got here before his mother had a chance to bring up how Draco was scared of rosebushes until he was six. He doesn’t remember taking a nasty tumble into one when he was first learning to walk, but he’s certainly heard the story enough times. Zelda does _not_ need to know about it.

“As scared as you are of that plant?” Zelda asks, the wide-eyed picture of sincerity.

Draco glares at her. “Go make yourself useful and restock the sassafras roots, we’ve nearly sold out.”

Zelda rolls her eyes and gives him a mocking salute.

“You know, I rather like that girl,” Narcissa says as Zelda goes off into the back room.

“Too bad, because _I’m going to sack her_ ,” Draco says loudly.

“Ha!” says Zelda from the back room.

Narcissa hides a smile. “Whatever you feel is best. It is your shop, after all.”

“Mother,” Draco says. Draco can’t remember precisely when Narcissa had decided that she liked Zelda, but they’ve been teaming up to make his life difficult ever since. The truly frightening part of it is that he’s almost certain they’re not even doing it on purpose. “Did you come in here for a reason?”

She arches her brow. “Seeing my only son isn’t reason enough?”

“That excuse is beginning to wear a bit thin, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. It has been three years, now, hasn’t it?” She produces a little box wrapped in silver paper and tied with a gold ribbon from her handbag and holds it out to him with a little flourish. “Congratulations, darling. Your father and I are so proud.”

Draco takes the box. “Mother, you didn’t have to…” he begins, but undermines himself by being entirely unable to resist giving the box a little shake. He hears something small rattle around inside it, clattering softly against the pasteboard sides of the little box.

“We were going to wait to give it to you when we see you on Monday,” Narcissa says. “But we couldn’t wait. Don’t open it yet, there’s something we need to see to, first.”

“Mother, I can’t. It’s the middle of the day.”

Zelda returns with an armload of sassafras roots. “Oh, go on, I’ve got the shop,” she says as she sweeps by, and Draco takes a deep breath and inhales the scent she trails by in her wake, sweet and vaguely liquorice-y.

He frowns after her as she pulls open the long drawer labelled _Sassafras Root_ and begins to stack them inside. “Do you know what this is about.”

“No,” she says, not looking up. “Your mum said she needed you for something and I know better than to argue.”

Narcissa looks unbearably smug, and Draco glares at Zelda. “You do recall which of us is paying your salary, do you not?” he asks.

Zelda shrugs, unrepentant. Narcissa’s smug look increases. Draco decides to cut his losses, rolls his eyes, and Summons his cloak from the back room but forgoes gloves and hat in favour of a strong Warming Charm. Narcissa is hatless so they must not be going too far.

And indeed they don’t. They go just across the street to Gringotts where Lucius is waiting before the counter of a Goblin teller.

“Ah, just in time,” Lucius says, beckoning them over. “Draco, I’ll need you to sign this.”

Draco looks at the long roll of parchment covered in print so tiny he’d need a strong Magnification Charm to read any of it. “What is it?”

Lucius taps his wand to the parchment, highlighting and enlarging a section of the font, and Draco reads over it quickly. It appears that Lucius is transferring a large number of Galleons into a separate vault, and for some reason it requires his signature as well to authorise it. Lucius and Narcissa have both already signed. Normally Draco would read over every word of a document before putting his name to it, but he trusts that Lucius already has.

“Full name,” the Goblin grunts at him as Draco takes up the quill.

Draco fights down the urge to huff indignantly, because he has been signing documents practically since he was old enough to hold a quill, he knows how this works. He bends over the parchment and carefully writes out _Draco Lucius Abraxas Black Malfoy_ in the empty space below his parents’ signatures.

The Goblin takes it back from him almost before Draco’s lifted his quill from the tail of his Y and rolls it up. “Is there anything else you needed today?” he asks, sounding very much like he hopes the answer is _no_.

“No, that will be all,” Lucius says dismissively, turns and leads walks away.

Draco takes a few longer strides to catch up to his father. “What was that about?” he asks.

There’s a small seating area to the left of the front doors, where witches and wizards waiting to be escorted to their vaults can sit if there’s a queue. A few tufted velvet chairs line the wall, along with a rather sad-looking ficus in a large porcelain pot. Lucius leads the way over but doesn’t sit down.

“You’re aware of the vaults you stand to inherit,” Lucius says.

He doesn’t phrase it as a question, because he know that Draco is, but that doesn’t clear up the mystery of what just transpired. He doesn’t stand to inherit his next vault until he turns twenty-five, and that’s not for more than two more years.

Draco frowns. “Yes.”

“Your mother and I have been discussing this for a while,” Lucius says, and glances down at Narcissa as she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her wand casually flicks in the motions for a Privacy Spell, and Lucius gives her a smile before he continues, “Perhaps you should open your gift.”

Draco looks from his father to his mother, who’s smiling and gives him a small nod. Draco takes the little box from his pocket and unties the ribbon, folds it up and puts it back in his pocket. Then murmurs the Counter-Spell to undo the Sticking Charms fastening the paper. He takes it off and folds it up and put that in his pocket too. Then he lifts the lid of the box and finds a small vault key. He picks it up and turns it over. Etched into the head of the key is the number 813.

He recognises the number right away, but even so he still counts up from his other vaults to make sure this is, in fact, the one he’s thinking of. He’s always had access to vault 808. He inherited vault 809 when he turned seventeen, and 810 when he turned twenty-one. He’ll get vault 811 next, when he turns twenty-five, and vault 812 after that when he turns thirty, and this one, vault 813—

“I don’t understand,” he says, because he’s not married and he’s sure he hasn’t produced an heir, intentionally or otherwise. He’s never had sex.

Narcissa and Lucius exchange a glance, and then Narcissa says, “We’ve decided that you have earned this.”

“We’ve had our solicitor examine the contracts dictating your inheritance that your grandfather Abraxas drew up when you were born,” Lucius says. “There were loopholes we found that we could use to our benefit—”

“It’s all quite complicated,” Narcissa says, tightening her fingers around Lucius’s elbow.

“I wasn’t going to go into all that,” Lucius says reprovingly to his wife, then says to Draco, “It’s needlessly convoluted and would be tremendously dull to explain. The two based on age, I’m afraid, we were unable to break. But for the one stipulating marriage or a suitable heir, we were able to take advantage of some of the language within it to give it to you without the requirements being met.”

Draco looks down at the key in his palm. “But why?”

“Because from what we’ve seen of you managing your apothecary, you’ve proven yourself responsible enough to manage your own funds,” Lucius says, and suddenly the financial nature of many of their conversations makes sense to Draco. Lucius must have been planning this for years.

“No,” Draco says, swallowing hard. “I meant, why are you letting me have it without marrying? Because I intend to, it’s not that I never intend to, it’s that I just haven’t met anyone yet that I’d like to, that I would want—”

“No, darling,” Narcissa breaks in gently, saving him from admitting something truly embarrassing. “When you meet the person with whom you’d like to spend the rest of your life, it should be for no other reason than you’re in love. And you should be allowed to make that decision without the pressure of the majority of your inheritance hanging in the balance. That sort of thinking is old-fashioned and was outdated even when your father and I were married.”

“Oh, I…” Draco says, fingers curling in and tightening around the vault key in his hand, pressing it hard into his palm. “Thank you.”

Lucius clasps a hand to Draco’s shoulder and squeezes firmly. “You have earned this,” and beside him, Narcissa is watching Draco with a startlingly tender look on her face.

And Draco has no idea how to respond to any of that, especially in public because while his parents’ backs are to the rest of the bank, his own face is clearly visible to everyone around him, so he settles for another, “Thank you.”

He asks his parents if they’d like to come back to his for tea, but Lucius has further business to attend to on Diagon Alley, and they part ways on the front steps of Gringotts.

“What’d they give you?” Zelda asks when Draco returns to the shop.

Draco curls his fingers around the little key, the sharp edges digging into his palm. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and shakes his head. “They gave me…” He pauses, unsure of how to phrase this.

He’s reluctant to tell Zelda, _My parents just gave me an arseload of money_ because it’s so much more than that, but it feels just as uncomfortable to tell her about how unexpectedly grateful he is to not have the majority of his inheritance tied to whether or not he can find someone he’d like to marry. Or whether he can find someone who’d like to marry _him_. The number on the parchment he’d signed pops into his head, and Draco feels suddenly flustered by the sheer number of Galleons he now has access to. He’d already known exactly what he stood to inherit, but knowing that it would be his at some undefined point in the future, and having it _actually_ be his right now are two very different things. It’s a little overwhelming.

“Draco?” Zelda asks, watching him with some concern.

“The fixed something very important to me,” he says, then, “I’m going to check on my potion,” and goes into the back room.

* * * * *

“I’m taking my lunch,” Zelda announces an hour later, slipping through the door and shutting it firmly behind her.

Draco looks up from his cauldron and frowns at her, frowns pointedly at the clock, and then frowns at Zelda again. “You have ten minutes until your lunch.”

“Yes, but Dorothea just walked in and if I don’t go now, she’ll talk my ears off and I’ll end up going late,” Zelda says. She’s leaning against the door as if she expects Dorothea to come bursting through it. Which, depending on how scandalous her latest bit of gossip is and how long Dorothea’s been forced to keep it to herself, might be a legitimate concern. “And I’m hungry.”

Draco glances at the clock again. “Very well,” he says. “I’ll go out there and keep Dorothea occupied for you on the condition that you decant this and send it out. It needs another two minutes over low heat. The address is in the ledger. Balan should be back from his morning delivery by now.”

“Deal,” Zelda says. She rolls up her sleeves and slips her wand out of its holster, and takes Draco’s place at the worktable before the simmering cauldron. “Do I need to do anything with the others?”

There are two more cauldrons on the worktable, but one’s got a Calming Draught which needs to simmer for another two hours without being touched, and the other is full of silkworm cocoons soaking in warm water.

“No, those will be fine,” Draco tells her. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“Enjoy your chat,” Zelda tells him, keeping her eye on the clock as she labels a crystal vial.

Draco goes out into the shop, helps a customer find asphodel and rings her up to get her out of the shop so he can listen uninterrupted, then goes over to where Dorothea is browsing by the insects.

“You’ll never guess what happened to Katherine Benson,” she says without preamble when he approaches her. “Do you remember that boy she was seeing? Alfred Something-or-other?”

“Alfred Almsbury,” Draco says, his interest piquing. Katherine and Alfred have been seeing each other for a few months, to the dismay of both of their families. It’s all very Romeo-and-Juliet, and the way it’s going, Draco wouldn’t be surprised at all if someone’s got themselves stabbed.

“Yes, that’s right. Well.” Dorothea leans forward, eyes sparkling with barely-restrained glee, and lowers her voice as she continues, “I heard from Charlotte down the street who heard from Katherine’s mother herself that they eloped! Apparently they had a great big fight with—Oh!” Dorothea breaks off, looking across the shop as the bells above the door ring and a customer comes in. “There she is, Draco, you do remember the young lady I mentioned to you the other day, don’t you? Hello again, dear, I’m so glad you found your way over.” Dorothea gives her an enthusiastic wave.

Draco follows her gaze across the room to where a witch with long black hair has just entered the shop. She looks up, startled, and then her face smooths into a polite expression.

Standard operating procedure when dealing with Dorothea, Draco thinks to himself and hides a smile. That’s Zelda’s usual approach: paste on a polite look and wait it out and eventually Dorothea will run out of steam.

“Come along, dear, don’t be shy,” Dorothea says, bustling over to take the poor girl by her elbow and hustle her back over to Draco.

“Dorothea,” Draco chides. “Please don’t maul my customers.”

“Oh, you,” Dorothea says, swatting at Draco’s arm. “She knows better than that. We had ourselves a lovely chat the other day, got ourselves all acquainted. She’s been abroad for a while so I was telling her all the things that are new here on Diagon Alley. I warned her off old Slug & Jiggers. I told her, if you need a potion, you ought to go straight to Draco Malfoy! She was very interested in that, weren’t you dear?”

“I have trouble sleeping,” she admits after a moment, a bit awkwardly. She speaks softly, almost hesitant. “I’ve tried Dreamless Sleep, but I don’t like it.”

It’s a common complaint. Dreamless Sleep is one of the stronger sleep aids. Draco hates to use it too, because it leaves him groggy and muddled the following day, and often doesn’t resort to it unless his nightmares are especially awful.

“Well, our pre-brewed potions are just over here, we have plenty of options besides Dreamless Sleep,” Draco says, gently leading the poor girl out of Dorothea’s grasp. “Of course if nothing’s to your liking, I do accept orders for custom potions.” He walks her through her options, tells her about the efficacy and side-effects of each, and she picks out several to try.

Draco takes the handful of little vials and rings them up, tells her the total and slips them into a paper bag while she counts out her coins and offers them to him in a handful. Draco takes them, sorting them out into a neat stack before he puts them away in the till. One of the coins is odd, the edges don’t quite line up with the other Galleons. Draco separates it from the rest. It feels unexpectedly warm to the touch, like it’s been resting directly against skin, and is far heavier than it looks like it should be.

“Oh, my mistake,” the witch says, and Draco barely gets a glimpse of the image stamped into the coin’s face, a simple image of a bird with three legs, before she reaches out and takes it back. She ducks her head shyly as she tucks the coin away in her handbag, her hair falling in a curtain that hides her face. “Sorry. Here.” She passes him a Galleon.

Draco takes it and slips it into the till, and hands her back twelve Knuts as change. He can almost feel the ghost of warmth on his fingertips where they touched the coin. “I’ve never seen a coin quite like that. May I ask what it was?”

“What?” She rakes fingers through her hair, but it falls right back. “Oh. An old family heirloom. A good-luck charm.” She gives him a shy smile that comes off a little strained. “At least, that’s what my mother told me when she insisted I carry it.”

Draco huffs a small laugh. He understands all about humouring one’s mother. “Well, a little luck never hurt anyone,” he says, handing over the paper bag with the potions inside. “Thank you very much.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking the bag and turning away.

Dorothea sidles up to the counter, looking smug. “I told her you’d have what she needed.”

“With you around, I hardly need to advertise, do I,” says Draco dryly.

Dorothea looks quite proud of herself. “Well, I knew you’d be able to get her sorted. I told her all about the wonders your Arthritis Anointment did for my hands.” She flexes her fingers a few times. “She seemed quite impressed.”

Draco hides a fond smile. As difficult as Dorothea can sometimes be, she truly is a dear. He checks to make sure that his customer has gone out of the shop and out of earshot before he leans over the counter, weight on his elbows, and says, “So. Tell me all about Katherine Benson’s elopement.”

* * * * *

That night, Draco dreams of the War. Which is not an unusual occurrence, but this dream feels different. More intense. In the dream, he’s out in the Manor rose gardens because Bellatrix has been Cursing the house-elves again and Draco can’t stand to listen to them scream. It’s chilly, the sun diffused through a thick layer of grey clouds, and the white gravel path crunches beneath his feet as he walks. He hears a sound from behind him, and spins just in time to see a peahen startled into flight. Draco jerks awake with the echo of her heavy wings flap, flap, flapping still lingering in his ears.

His heart is pounding, his nightshirt cold and damp with sweat. He exhales slowly, breathes in, breathes out, and tries to calm his nerves. It was just a dream, and not even a very bad one on the scale of it. He’s certainly had worse. 

A strange sense of malaise lingers at the back of his mind as he goes through his morning routine, washes and dresses and eats his breakfast, but it slowly starts to fade by the time he goes downstairs to begin his day. He’s running a little later than usual and can hear Zelda in the front counting the till, and the steady click-click-click of her shuffling coins into neat piles is a comfort. Draco casts a Cleaning Charm over his worktable on his way to check his letterbox. It’s empty, but Balin’s clutching a letter in his talons, staring obstinately at Draco from within his cage.

He sometimes does this, for no apparent reason other than he’s a bloody terrible bird who likes being difficult.

“Give me that,” Draco says, and of course Balin doesn’t listen.

Balan swivels his head to look at Draco and hoots softly, fluffing his feathers. He shuffles farther down his perch, away from Draco, eyeing him intensely.

“You’re not the one who’s in trouble,” Draco mutters. Daft bird. Normally he’s clamouring for attention, regardless of his companion’s untoward behaviour.

Draco sighs and opens the door to the cage. He flicks his wand to clear the owl pellets and moulted feathers that litter the bottom of the cage, casts an _Aguamenti_ to refill the water dish and checks the charms that keep the cage comfortable even in the sharp chill of early March, then makes a grab for the letter. Sometimes if he’s quick enough, he can get it away before Balin even knows what’s happening.

No such luck this morning. Draco gets the letter, but at the expense of a hard nip to the thumb. It stings fiercely, and Draco looks down to see that a bright bead of blood is already welling up. Draco glares at Balin, who stares right back at him.

“Wales,” he says ominously, then sticks his bleeding thumb into his mouth and sucks it clean as he goes back inside.

Draco tosses the letter onto the top of his file cabinets, and opens the cupboard above them to look through his own personal stash of potions. He gets down a little jar of medicinal paste that accelerates the healing of minor cuts. Draco brews it himself and keeps it handy for owl-inflicted injuries. He rubs a smear of it over his thumb and puts the jar away. It tingles intensely, but it’ll subside in a minute or two, and when he wipes it off five minutes later the cut will be gone.

When he opens the letter, careful not to touch it with his thumb, he discovers that he went through all that fuss for a form letter notifying him of the indoor market’s upcoming change in hours, which will take effect on the first day of spring.

He sighs, and gets out his diary to check which orders he’s got scheduled for today. His day may have started off poorly, he tells himself, but that means it’s got nowhere to go but up.

* * * * *

Draco was entirely wrong about that; his day turns into one of those where absolutely nothing goes right. He spills a cauldron of nearly-completed potion. He stains his robes. He gets nipped a second time when he sends Balin off on a delivery. He encounters several enormously difficult customers one after the other when Zelda goes to lunch. And worst of all, when he receives his monthly shipment from Henri that afternoon, there are no Erumpent horns.

He takes everything out of the crate and double-checks the invoice that came with the shipment to verify that yes, he did in fact place an order for three Erumpent horns, but that order wasn’t filled and there’s no explanation as to why. Draco checks his stockroom even though he knows its contents practically down to the ounce. And indeed, he only confirms what he already knew: he’s entirely out.

This would be frustrating under normal circumstances; he hates to be out of stock on anything. But this is worse because he desperately needs it for a potion he has to brew and send off this evening. It’s for one of his more difficult customers, one who won’t take kindly to a delay. Mrs Calder is nearly as big a busybody as Dorothea, and Draco knows that if she’s displeased with the service he’s provided, she’ll tell absolutely everyone. Starting with him. Loudly. And at great length.

“Zelda!” he shouts, glaring at the empty crate.

It takes a moment, but she pokes her head in the door. “What?”

“I need you to get on the Floo to Henri.” He shoulders her aside and pulls the door open to peek out into the shop. Other than a witch with an enormous feathered pink hat browsing through vials of potions, it’s deserted. “Right now. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Zelda sighs, rolling her eyes. She comes inside. “What’s he done to arse you off this time.”

“I’ll tell you what he’s done,” Draco says, brandishing the shipping invoice at her, and Zelda snatches it away from him to get it out of her face. “He hasn’t sent me the bloody Erumpent horns I need.”

Zelda grimaces. “Well, that’s a problem. Mrs Calder’s potion needs to go out today, doesn’t it?”

Draco grits his teeth together. “Henri. Floo. _Now_.”

“Well I was just asking,” Zelda says as she heads for the Floo. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m not the one who botched your order.”

She takes a scoop of Floo Powder from the little green glass dish on the mantle and kneels down. Draco taps his foot anxiously as she tosses it in and recites Henri’s Floo address and waits for it to connect. The flame flares bright green and Zelda sticks her head in.

He only catches snatches of Zelda’s side of the conversation echoing up out of the Floo, and Draco’s French may be bad but he knows enough of it to catch a lot of _please_ and _thank you_ and… was that a sorry? Did Zelda just say she was _sorry_? Why on earth is she apologising when that arsehole Henri is the one who messed up Draco’s order. And there, it was, she just said it again!

“Why are you apologising, Zelda?” he shouts at her arse. “Don’t apologise to him! He ought to be apologising to you!”

Zelda fumbles one hand behind herself and makes a rude gesture at him, and the apologetic tone of her voice never wavers as she keeps talking. And Draco gets a sudden flash of insight into Zelda’s handling of Henri and why it’s so effective. He’s never stayed in the room when the two of them have talked before now, but for this conversation at least, her approach to it seems to be, _“I’m so sorry to be a bother, but we both know that my boss is a complete nutter.”_

Draco glares, which she of course can’t see, and goes back out into the shop where he is immediately set upon by the woman in the feathered pink hat. She berates him for his failure to provide Felix Felicis for immediate sale, and the words _controlled substance_ make no impact whatsoever on her outrage. Apparently it is that she have some immediately and Draco _does not understand_ the urgency of her situation, and is he sure he hasn’t got any in the back? Can he go check for her? Just in case?

Draco takes a deep breath. “Very well,” he says. “I’ll go and check.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she huffs in what’s got the be the world’s most insincere show of gratitude.

Draco goes into the back where Zelda is still shoulders-deep in the Floo. He leans against the door for a moment, then checks on his simmering cauldron of stewing Lacewing Flies. He checks his diary and lays out the all the ingredients for the Extra-Strength Anti-Septic he needs to brew this afternoon. He glances at the clock, then spends a few minutes refilling the little green glass dish of Floo Powder from the large jar of it he keeps in the storeroom, replacing the scoop that Zelda used up a few minutes before.

Then he goes back out into the shop where the woman in the pink hat is lingering right on the other side of the door.

“Well?” she demands. “Do you have any?”

“No,” he says apologetically. “I’m very sorry, but we don’t have any in stock.”

“None at all?” she asks incredulously.

“None at all,” he confirms. “Terribly sorry.”

Mercifully, she takes him at his word and goes off with one last spiteful, “Well I’ll just go to Slug & Jiggers, then!”

“You do that,” he mutters as the door shuts behind her, because Merlin knows that _they’re_ known for their understanding and accommodating nature. He rubs at his temples and sighs. Good riddance.

Zelda comes out just then, spelling soot from her hands. And Draco can tell from the look on her face that she hasn’t got good news for him.

“Well?” he asks.

“I got an apology out of him for not notifying you of the shortage, but there’s nothing to be done, Draco,” Zelda says with a helpless shrug. “France and the UK are renegotiating their trade agreements. All regulated substances have been frozen until the matter is resolved.”

“Bloody hell,” Draco grumbles. “That’ll take weeks.” He knows because the Ministry had renegotiated its trade agreements with Spain the year before. Draco had been out of Shrake Scales for almost a month before he was able to get any back in stock.

Like Shrake Scales, Erumpent horns are a Class B Tradeable Material, which means about a thousand miles of red tape to untangle and a million hoops to jump through in order to acquire it legally. Shrake Scales aren’t a terribly common potions ingredient, and he’d been able to stretch his limited stock long enough to get by. But Erumpent horns are used in far more things and Mrs Calder is only the beginning if he can’t get his hands on at least two or three of them, and fast.

And unfortunately, there’s nowhere legal to acquire any on short notice.

It’s not _technically_ legal, but apothecarists often help each other out like this. Draco goes right to the Floo and calls up David, who unfortunately is in the same predicament as Draco. He tries another few apothecarists with whom he’s on good terms, but they’re either out entirely, or their stock is low enough that they aren’t willing to sell him any.

Which means that Draco’s only remaining option for acquiring Erumpent Horn is _definitely_ not legal.

When he’d first opened his shop, he swore to himself that he would never sell a single ingredient that he hadn’t gained through entirely legal means. As a Malfoy, of course he knows where to go to get his hands on restricted ingredients. He knows which ears to whisper into and into which palms he should press coins to procure items which might be otherwise unavailable to him. He’d be lying if he said he’s never been tempted by it, mostly by the rarest ingredients he simply does without because there is no legal channel through which to acquire them. But it’s times like this he finds it equally hard to resist the lure of an easier path to purchasing the items, without the bother of quotas and tariffs.

Skirting the law to acquire those would be easier, and faster, and, once he factors in all the taxes and fees he’s not paying, likely quite a bit cheaper. And oh, the blissful lack of paperwork. Draco would be able to get rid of two whole filing cabinets if he stopped going through accredited suppliers.

He was, and very much still is, aware of the weight of his past. When he’d opened his doors, he’d known that there would be a large number of people who expected him to dabble in the darker side of the potions business. He’d feared that the Aurors would be keeping an eye on him at best, and ordering raids on his shop at the very worst. He’s still not entirely certain that someone over at the Ministry hasn’t got a file with his name on it, but if there is, he knows it must be practically empty. And Draco would very much like to keep it that way.

Which is why he’s going to be very careful when he goes down to Knockturn later this evening and visits an old associate of his father’s.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that the right thing to do would be to wait until the trade agreements have been settled and the freeze on regulated substances is lifted. But he can’t deny that there’s a bit of a thrill in breaking the rules. And it’ll just be this once. One time can’t possibly hurt.

Knockturn Alley waits until late at night to conduct most of its illustrious business, and so the authorities wait until then to catch them in the act. So if Draco visits right after he closes up the shop, there will be only a minimal risk in getting caught.

And besides, Draco hasn’t seen Alyosha in years. It’ll be nice to catch up with an old acquaintance.

* * * * *

By the time they lock up for the day, Draco is almost excited to run his errand. He counts the till as Zelda cleans up the shop, sweeping the floor and sending a Dusting Charm skating over every surface, and then restocks a few things that have run low during the day. They finish at approximately the same time, with him closing the ledger just as she stacks the last tin of bat spleens into its place.

It’s already deep into twilight by the time Zelda finishes up and goes home for the evening. And by the time he slips out the back door of his shop, Galleons weighing heavy in his pocket, it’s nearly full dark. He peeks into his owl cage and checks his letterbox. There’s two sets of staring eyes in one and nothing in the other, so he locks up his shop and heads down the narrow passageway that leads out onto the street.

It puts him out onto Knockturn Alley, and even though Diagon’s still right there, still within sight, it feels like he’s stepped into an entirely different world. Draco remembers the thrill of coming here with his father for the first time, how the narrow street and the way the buildings on either side seem to loom overhead felt more like the setting for some grand adventure. Back then, Lucius had been right at Draco’s side, striding down the center of the street with his cane tap-tapping briskly along the cobblestones as he went, and Draco had watched with wide-eyed fascination and great delight how all of the lesser witches and wizards had scrambled to get out of their way. Back then, Draco’s faith in his father had been deep and unshakable, and Draco had believed with the whole-hearted conviction of naivete and youth that Lucius could protect him from anything. Of course he hadn’t been scared. Back then, he’d had no reason to be.

Now, though. He’s a grown man. A fully-trained wizard, and a fairly dangerous one, at that. Perhaps it’s ridiculous of him to be afraid of walking down Knockturn alone at night after the horrors he’s endured. But still, there is a faint niggling at the back of his mind, and the itching of unseen eyes pressing down between his shoulderblades. Anticipation of something terrible skitters beneath his skin, makes his breath come quick and shallow.

And Draco has no idea why he’s scared.

He tugs his cloak more firmly around himself and walks a bit faster, squares his shoulders and draws each breath slow and deliberate. He’s being ridiculous. This is no more dangerous than sneaking out of the Slytherin dormitories had been. The consequences of being caught are greater now, to be sure, but the risk of it is no more immediate than it had been with Mrs Norris on the prowl. And as of right now, right this minute, Draco’s done nothing wrong. He’s got every right to be out here and no one can prove otherwise.

He slips a hand into his pocket and fingers the edge of one of his Galleons. Deep breaths, he tells himself. This will be fine.

Even though he’s been to Alyosha’s shop many times before, he nearly walks right past it. The heavy wood door is tucked in a little alcove half-hidden in the dark swell of shadow between two streetlamps. Draco glances up and down the street, ensuring that he’s alone out here.

He steps up to the door and raps his knuckles firmly against it before he can lose his nerve. The door opens right away, saving him from the agony of anticipation, and a dark-eyed man stares out at him through the small gap.

“What do you want,” he says flatly.

Draco tips his chin up and gives the man a haughty look. “I’d like to see Alyosha.”

“Yeah?” the man drawls, opening the door a little wider to size Draco up. “And what makes you think he’d like to see you?”

“Past experience,” Draco says dryly. “He and my father are old friends. I’d imagine he’d be quite disappointed if he found out you’d turned me away.” He’s pleased with how steady and indifferent his voice sounds, because inside his heart is pounding.

“Your name, then, if you’re such an old friend.”

“Draco Malfoy,” he says, and it’s nice to see that his surname still works the same way in certain circles. The door swings right open and Draco steps inside.

“This way,” the man says, and leads him down a cramped little corridor.

At the end of the corridor is a wide door, and they pass through it and into a cosy den, with thick rugs covering the floor and a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace.

The man says something Draco doesn’t understand, and Alyosha looks up from his paperwork, blinks, and whips the little half-moon reading glasses off his face and tosses them onto the table before him with a clatter.

“Draco Malfoy!” booms Alyosha, standing up. He spreads his arms wide as he steps forward. Draco braces himself as Alyosha claps his massive hands on Draco’s shoulder and kisses him three times on the cheeks. He pushes Draco out to arm’s length to get a good look at him, beaming at him so broadly that Draco can’t help but smile back. It’s not often that anyone looks this glad to see him. “Look at you, so grown up. I was just asking Lucius about you the other day.”

Draco had no idea that Lucius still frequented any shop on Knockturn, but he can’t say he’s much surprised. He wonders whether his mother knows.

“It has been far too long,” Alyosha goes on. “What brings you to see me?”

“Well, I was hoping you might help me out of a bit of a bind I’ve found myself in,” Draco says.

“Ha! Just like your father, straight down to business,” he says. “Let me guess. You have been affected by the trade renegotiations, yes?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Draco says.

Alyosha shrugs. “Difficult for you. But good for my business. What are you looking for?”

“Erumpent horns,” Draco says.

“Hm, yes,” Alyosha says after a moment. “I believe we have some. How much do you need?”

“One or two,” Draco says.

Alyosha snaps his fingers at the man who’d shown Draco in, who’s still lingering by the door. “Go get Ekaterina to take him into the back,” he orders, then smiles fondly at Draco. “A man who owns his own apothecary will want to pick out his own wares.”

Draco inclines his head and has to fight down a smile. “Thank you. I very much appreciate that.”

Truthfully, he’s more excited to see Ekaterina than to see the horns, and Draco hadn’t even known she was back in England. For a time, Lucius had done an extensive amount of business with Alyosha, and Draco had spent quite a lot of time with her as a child, playing rambunctious games of hide-and-go-seek in the stockroom, or sneaking up to the roof to look at the owls. Being with her was always an exciting adventure, and he’d been so disappointed when his mother had won the argument over his schooling and he’d been sent off to Hogwarts rather than to Durmstrang with her. They’d kept in contact for years, exchanging letters like clockwork, and they’d spent one fantastic schoolyear together, when Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament and she’d come over with the Durmstrang crowd. But then the War had happened and they’d slipped out of contact. And then he’d started his shop and she’d gone abroad, and they’d somehow never picked up again.

“Ah, there she is,” Alyosha says when his daughter appears in the doorway, an older version of the girl Draco remembers, with the same pert nose and big grey eyes and honey-brown hair. Alyosha smiles slyly at Draco. “She’s grown up beautiful, hasn’t she? When are you going to marry my little Ekaterina?”

“Papa,” she sighs, making exasperated eye contact with Draco.

It’s an old joke, one their parents have been making about them since they were seven years old, though Lucius probably would have seriously encouraged it had either of them shown the slightest interest in each other like that. Her blood is just as pure as his, and her hand in marriage would come with a sizable dowry. Apart from this side-business of less-than-legal acquisitions, Alyosha oversees a tremendously successful business importing fine goods. His daughter, much like Draco, is a much-beloved only child, and stands to inherit everything.

“I’ll do it the very day I think I can handle her,” Draco says, catching her hand in his and brushing a kiss to her knuckles. “Hi, Katie.”

“Smart boy,” Katie says, grinning at him, and it’s still got the same edge of mischievousness to it that it did back when they were children, right before she talked him into doing something that’d get them both in trouble. “Hello, Draco. I hear you’re after some Erumpent horns?”

“If you don’t mind,” he says.

“It’s good you’ve come now. We’ve already had several requests, and we haven’t got enough to get through the whole shortage,” she says, and then slips him a wink. “I’ll give you first pick.”

“You’re too good to me,” Draco says, and then makes his goodbyes to Alyosha.

Katie leads him into a dusty little library just down the hall. The stockroom is in an undisclosed location, accessible only by a Two-Way Floo Connection. Draco had always been curious how they’d managed to make it work without connecting to the official Floo Network, but every time he’s asked, Alyosha has tapped his nose and smiled instead of answering.

“Same password?” he asks, taking up a handful of powder, and Katie nods at him.

She takes up her own handful, then gestures to him. “After you.”

“Buttered parsnips!” he announces, throwing his handful into the fireplace.

He steps out into a large storeroom, every inch crammed with stacks of crates and boxes, the narrow passages and spaces between them creating a claustrophobically warren-like feel that was much more appealing to Draco as a bored eight-year-old than it is to him now. But it still retains some of its old magic, the pleasure of looking around at all the different things. There’s a case of Dragon eggs packed in straw, and here’s a large stack of fabric, colourful silks wound on thick bolts. Draco peeks into an open crate beside him, lifting aside crinkly brown paper to discover several elaborate metal chalices that he’d bet his last Knut are Goblin-made.

The Floo whooshes to life again, and Katie steps out.

“I’ve heard of your business, you know. You’re making quite a name for yourself,” Katie says, flicking her wand and lighting the stockroom. “I’m curious. Did your father have much to say about it when you chose to deviate from following in his footsteps?”

“Surprisingly little,” Draco says, trailing after her as she wends her way between the towering stack of crates. It’s been so long since he’s seen her, and he feels a little awkward. But she doesn’t seem to share his affliction.

Katie nods. “I wish Papa would take a page from his book. He expects me to take over the business for him and he’s growing quite insistent.” She half-turns so Draco can see her roll her eyes a little.

“And you don’t intend to?” Draco asks. He’d always assumed she would.

“One day, perhaps, when he is unable to continue. But I’m far more interested in Alchemy. I just finished two years at the Centre for Alchemical Studies, you know, and I’ve started up my own little lab. I spend most of my time over there, now. This,” She waves a hand at the room around them, “All of this is his, not mine.”

Draco knows the feeling well. It’s why he’d started his apothecary.

Katie stops before a large splintery wooden crate and uses her wand to pry the top off and set it aside. She gestures to it and steps back.

“Take your pick,” she says.

Draco steps up and leans over the edge to find close to two dozen horns packed in straw. He sorts through them, examining them with an eye for both size and quality, as he and Katie haggle about price. He has enough Galleons on him for two horns, but not quite enough for three, so he’s willing to go a little high. Two should be sufficient to see him through this shortage, if he’s careful. He hands over the coins, and picks out two of the best ones. Katie wraps them up in a large sheet of brown paper and ties it up in twine.

“It’s silly, isn’t it, that we never see each other,” she says as she hands over his package. “We should.”

“I’ll owl you,” he promises. He’s missed her, and of course it’s never a bad idea to know a skilled Alchemist. “We’ll have dinner one night. It’ll be nice to catch up properly.”

Katie smiles. “It will indeed.” She nudges him out of the way and closes up the crate again. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

She leads the way back through the Floo and then out of the library and up the hallway and into the little anteroom where she gives him a hug and extracts another promise from him to owl her before she pushes him out the door.

Draco steps outside and the door shuts behind him, the lock turning over a moment later with a loud metallic _thunk_ that seems to echo through the quiet evening air. He adjusts the package in his arms, and wishes that he could use a Shrinking Charm to make it a little less obvious he’s just made a sizable purchase. But even though Erumpent horns have been drained of Exploding Fluid as a matter of course, sometimes a few drops linger and can react unpredictably with magic. And Draco doesn’t fancy being blown up.

He keeps his wand handy, though, and a Vanishing Charm ready on the tip of his tongue, should anyone try to stop him. It’ll look suspicious, but no-one will be able to prove anything.

Draco peers up and down the street before he leaves the relative security of the shadowy doorway. The wind has picked up a little since he’d gone inside, and dead leaves scrape over the pavement, a thin, dry sound that tickles Draco’s spine. He squares his shoulders and moves as quickly as he can without making it look like he’s in a hurry.

This deep into evening, thick stretches of darkness have settled over Diagon Alley, making everything look smooth and soft. Warm yellow gaslight falls in broad puddles around the bases of black iron streetlamps and casts shifting shadows as he moves. Draco watches his own shadow as he approaches and passes each streetlamp in turn, how it sidles up from behind him, shrinking down and down til it huddles in a small blot beneath his feet, then stretches out before him longer and longer until it’s swallowed up by the shadows, only to reappear behind him as he nears the next light.

He hears a sudden rustle of feathers overhead and looks around. His first thought is an owl hunting some small prey, but they’re silent when they fly. Aren’t they? He peers up at the eaves of the building he’s passing, up over the rooftops, but sees nothing but darkness.

A shiver curls its way up Draco’s spine, blossoming into an irrepressible shudder when it reaches between his shoulder blades. The night suddenly looks a lot darker, and Draco suddenly feels very small and alone. The paper-wrapped package in his arms feels very large and conspicuous, and he picks up his pace, hastening back to the safety and warmth of his shop.

* * * * *

He wakes the following morning to an odd sound. At first he thinks it’s water dripping, but he’s lived here for several years now and is familiar with all of the small, mundane sounds his building makes. He blinks his eyes open, listening, and it sounds as if it’s coming from outside. He rolls over to face the window.

There’s a sparrow on his windowsill tap-tap-tapping at the windowpane with its beak. Draco pushes himself up on his elbows and squints at it. The sparrow cocks its head to the left, then to the right, examining him with one dark beady eye and then the other. It taps at the windowpane again.

“Shoo,” Draco says, flapping his hand at the window, and the sparrow flutters off. Draco grunts and flops back against his pillows, rubbing at his face. He was up past midnight last night processing enough horn for the potion and then brewing it and packing it up and getting it sent off, and his eyes feel gritty and dry with lack of sleep.

When he fumbles for the little clock he keeps on his window, he sees that there are only two minutes until his alarm would have rung to wake him. Draco turns it off, lies still for a long minute as he gathers his will, then pushes himself out of bed to begin his day.

* * * * *

“Are you feeling all right, Draco?” Narcissa asks as they stroll leisurely around the gardens.

It’s a lovely afternoon, sunny and cool, with a bit of a breeze. Draco should have expected an interrogation when his mother suggested they _get some fresh air_.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Narcissa glances at him. “You hardly touched your scone at tea.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Draco mutters, hoping she’ll let this go.

“Hm,” Narcissa says. “And you’re looking rather pale.”

Truthfully, Draco’s exhausted. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, tossing and turning and sleeping fitfully, waking up every other hour with nightmares, and that bloody sparrow has taken a liking to his window. It’s not there every morning, but it shows up every few days and tap-tap-taps him awake. This morning, it’d brought a friend. After more than a week of it, his eyes feel heavy all the time and his temper’s grown short. And, as his mother’s pointed out, he looks quite awful.

“I’m fine, Mother,” he says, because he doesn’t want her to worry and denying everything will only make her suspicious, he adds, “I just haven’t been sleeping well. That’s all.” He’s got enormous dark bruises beneath his eyes, and honestly he’s not sure why she didn’t lead with that.

Her expression softens at the edges and turns pained, and too late Draco remembers the screaming nightmares he used to have right after the War, how he’d wake with a half-panicked house-elf at his bedside. How afterward he’d try his hardest to not fall asleep again, spending the small hours of the morning hidden away in the library, surrounded by the warm glow of lamps and bundled up in his warmest dressing gown. Narcissa had usually been the one to fetch him for breakfast the following morning, from where he’d inevitably fallen into a fitful doze by sunrise.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “It’s not,” he pauses, inhales, starts again. “I’m very close to a breakthrough in my work.” It’s true enough. Finding a formula to replicate the magical effects of Opalescent Scarabs has been fiendishly troublesome, but with the latest results David had owled over the other day, Draco thinks they might finally have found a working solution.

The worry in Narcissa’s eyes eases, replaced by exasperation. “The breakthroughs will still be there to make even if you take the time for a good night’s sleep,” she says. “I daresay they might even come easier if you’re rested.”

Draco nods. “I know. But I’m very close to this one.” A white stone from the gravel path has been knocked onto the edge of the grass, and Draco veers to the side and kicks it back where it belongs. He gives his mother a smile he hopes is convincing. “I’ll take some time to rest after this. Promise.”

“Hm,” Narcissa says, sounding as though she very much doubts that.

“Oh, I ran into Ekaterina the other day,” Draco offers. He pauses to refresh the Warming Charm on his cloak, then refreshes the one on his mother’s as well. “We’re having dinner together tomorrow night.”

That’s enough to distract his mother from his well-being. And then instead of a thousand questions about how he’s eating and sleeping and taking care of himself, she has a lot of questions about Katie and what she’s been up to. She seems brighter when she asks them, though. It’s likely reassured her to know that he’s got plans that don’t involve his apothecary. His lack of a social life is another thing with which Narcissa is inordinately concerned.

“I don’t know,” he repeats for what feels like the dozenth time. “Mother, I told you I only saw her for a few minutes. We barely had time to say hello. Can you save the interrogation for after I’ve seen her again and might actually have something to tell you?”

They pass through the elaborate arbour and out of the rose garden to where the path curves across the lawn and up to the Manor. A trio of peacocks pecking for insects in the brittle grass look up as one, heads slowly swiveling to watch as Draco and his mother pass by.

“You’ll have to tell your father,” Narcissa says as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure he’ll love to hear how Ekaterina’s been.”

“I’ll have to do that,” Draco says. He wonders whether his mother is aware that Lucius has been in recent contact with Katie’s father.

Narcissa smiles at him, and Draco recognises the look on her face. Sure enough, she goes straight off into a story reminiscing about the first time Katie and her father had come over to the Manor. He and Katie had been put outside to play, and the two of them had ended up chased by one of the peacocks, a particularly aggressive one that had been the bane of Draco’s young existence until it’d finally died shortly before he’d gone off to Hogwarts.

There’s a sudden burst of movement from behind him, and Draco looks over his shoulder to see that two of the peacocks have taken flight, soaring up and over the rosebushes to settle out of sight. The third is still on the lawn, watching him.

Draco turns back and follows Narcissa into the Manor.

* * * * *

Draco has dinner with Katie and they spend a very enjoyable several hours eating and emptying a bottle of wine and catching up with each other. It goes so well that they agree to do it again the following week. He’s missed her, and the way they fall back into conversation with each other feels almost seamless, as if they’d been apart for only a few weeks instead of years.

He’d been looking forward to seeing her again, but by the time Wednesday night rolls around, he begs off. He’s still exhausted. Even though he’s sleeping a full eight hours each night, and despite the sleeping potions he’s started taking each evening, he wakes up each morning just as tired as he’d been when he went to bed the previous evening. He’s irritable, temper on a hair-trigger, and the bruises beneath his eyes have darkened and spread, the purple bleeding into a greenish tinge that he’s started covering with a Blemish Concealer lest his mother pop in to see him at work. That bloody sparrow has finally let him alone, at least. Draco hasn’t seen it since Wednesday, thank Merlin for small mercies.

He spends part of his lunch on Thursday writing a letter to Katie apologising again for cancelling dinner last night. He sends Balan off to deliver it, and goes out into the shop only to find Zelda perched on a stool doing the daily crossword behind the counter.

“What are you doing?” he gripes.

“The crossword,” Zelda says without looking up. The tip of her quill bobs as she fills in an answer in vivid turquoise ink.

He glares at her. “Don’t do it behind the counter. It looks unprofessional.”

Zelda gives him an incredulous look. “More unprofessional than _you_ doing the daily crossword? Because you do it all the time. You just did it just yesterday, in fact. There isn’t even anyone in here right now. It’s been dead all day.”

“Well it’s my shop, I can do whatever I’d like,” he snaps at her.

“You’ve always let me do it. You let me read, too. On slow days you even let me put on the wireless,” she says.

Draco’s hands clench into fists at his side. “I’ve told you to do something. Why are you arguing with me?”

“I’m not, I’m just saying I don’t understand why this is suddenly a problem,” Zelda says, and now she’s frowning at him. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Put away the bloody paper,” he commands. He has no idea why he ever wanted someone around who wasn’t afraid to push back against him, because this is bloody infuriating, and why won’t she just do as he says?

Zelda’s frown deepens. “Draco—”

And the last threads of his temper snap.

He lashes out with an _Incendio_ and the paper goes up in a flash of flame and a curl of smoke, leaving a pile of ash on the counter. Zelda yelps in alarm and topples off the stool, barely catching herself on her feet.

“What the—” She stares at him in shock, wide-eyed.

And Draco recoils, hardly able to believe what he’s just done. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and flees for the back room.

He drops his wand onto his worktable with a clatter and paces the length of his lab twice before collapsing onto his stool. His wand has rolled to a stop beside a jar of dried nettles and the sight of it makes his stomach twist. He tucks his shaking hands under his armpits and closes his eyes and tries to breathe. The look on Zelda’s face flashes through his mind again. She’d been afraid of him. Of what he might do to her. He’d made her afraid.

He exhales a shaky breath and scrubs his hands over his face and says, “Shit.”

What on earth is the matter with him? 

“Draco?” Zelda calls quietly from the doorway.

Inwardly he winces. She sounds hesitant in a way that she hasn’t since her first month at the shop. Back when they’d been strangers to each other. He takes a deep breath.

“Yes?” he replies, turning on his stool to look over his shoulder. “Did you need something?”

“No,” she says, coming forward. “Are you all right?”

That bloody question again. No, he’s not all right. He hasn’t slept and he feels like he’s coming undone at the seams and he could have hurt her. He’s losing control of himself in way that hasn’t happened in years.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Right,” she says, and clearly believes him as much as Narcissa does. “Only, you’ve seemed irritable this week.” She smiles, but it comes up thin and worried, and she comes forward a single cautious step. “Moreso than usual, I mean.”

Draco smiles even though the joke is small and not all that funny. “Really,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Zelda only looks more concerned. “You can tell me if something wrong, you know. Or if you need some time away? I don’t mind watching the shop for a while.”

“No, nothing’s the matter,” he says, and sighs. “I’ve not been sleeping well lately and it’s affecting my mood. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I apologise.”

“Oh,” Zelda says. “You could take a potion for that, you know.”

“I’ll take something tonight,” he promises. He doesn’t tell her that he’s been taking potions for most of the last week and it hasn’t been helping.

“Good,” she says, nodding. “Look, why don’t you leave opening to me tomorrow and sleep in a little. See if it helps.”

“I…” Draco pauses. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

The bells over the front door jingle, and Zelda glances over her shoulder, then gives him another smile.

“I’d best get back to work, then,” she says, and hurries back out into the shop.

The door closes behind her. Draco lets the smile slip off his face, and lays his head down on his worktable.

* * * * *

Despite taking a dose of Dreamless Sleep and setting his alarm for two hours later than usual, the dark circles beneath his eyes are more prominent than ever. Draco resorts to a Glamour when he sees his face in the mirror the following morning because he can only imagine what his mother will say if she sees it, should she happen to stop by. Zelda most likely wouldn’t say anything, but he doesn’t want to see the concerned looks she’d be giving him any time she thinks he’s not watching.

It’s a trial to get through the day, but Draco makes it. Pretending to be fine saps what little energy he’d started with, and when he goes home that evening, he’s so tired he feels almost drunk as he climbs up the stairs to his flat, clumsy-footed and unsteady. He fumbles the door open, lighting his flat with a halfhearted _Lumos_ before closing and locking up after himself.

He barely manages to undress before he tumbles into bed, and is out.

* * * * *

Draco’s alarm goes off the following morning and he blinks his eyes open, shaking off sleep as easily as water slides off a duck’s back. It’s been so long since he didn’t feel weighed down by exhaustion that it takes him a long moment of staring blankly at his ceiling before it clicks in his mind that this is what it feels like to be awake.

Slowly, he pushes himself up. Had he taken a potion last night? He doesn’t remember taking anything, but then again he barely remembers coming home.

Perhaps the sleeplessness has simply run its course.

In any case, Draco’s not about to look a gift thestral in the mouth. Today he feels better than he has in the last two weeks, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

He goes through his morning routine, washes and dresses and breakfasts, and heads downstairs. The front of the shop is silent, but Draco peeks out anyhow to confirm that Zelda’s not in yet. She’s not, so he starts out on his own tasks. He casts cleaning charms around his lab, clears off his worktable, and steps outside to check his letterbox.

He’s just lifting the lid to look inside when his owls catch his attention. Balan is on the floor of the cage, and Balin perched higher up. They’re both frozen in place and staring at him.

“What?” he says to them, absently lowering the lid of the letterbox. There’s something off about their behaviour. He hopes they’re not ill. He’s got orders to send off today.

He leaves the letterbox for now and turns to the cage, opens up the door to make sure his owls aren’t hurt. With Balin up on a perch, safely out of pecking range, Draco reaches in to check on Balan first. Balan shuffles farther away, eyes fixed on Draco’s hand.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Draco murmurs, reaching deeper into the cage.

He gets no warning before Balin bursts into motion in a loud rustling of feathers and an earsplitting scream. He flies right for Draco, sharp talons tearing through the sleeve of Draco’s robes, shredding right through the fine fabric and drawing blood. Draco jerks back with a pained cry and ducks his face away just in time as Balin explodes out through the door of the cage, raking at Draco’s head. He goes hurtling up into the air, over the roof, and out of sight.

“What…” Draco gasps, cradling his bleeding arm. He’s bleeding from his scalp, too, a slow trickle of blood tickling as it slides its way down his forehead. He swipes at it before it can drip into his eyes and looks back at the cage.

Balan has pressed himself into the back corner, his feathers all puffed up, making him look twice as big. His eyes are fixed firmly on Draco, gleaming with an intensity that Draco very much does not like.

“All right, all right,” Draco says softly, trying to soothe Balan, but the sound of his voice only makes Balan puff up his feathers even more, lower his head and crouch as if he’s about to take flight. Draco slowly takes a step back, then another, then another, keeping his movements slow and as nonthreatening as he can make them.

Balan launches himself out of the cage the second Draco’s clear of it, powerful sweeps of his wings taking him up into the air and out of sight in a matter of seconds.

“What the fuck,” Draco says, staring up at where his owls have just vanished over the rooftops. “What the _fuck_.” He rubs at his forehead again, smearing more blood. His heart is pounding, adrenaline still screaming through him though the danger’s passed.

After a moment, he gathers his wits enough to think to check the cage. Did they eat something they shouldn’t have? Perhaps a poisoned mouse? It’s the only explanation Draco can think of to explain what’s just happened. But an inspection of the cage doesn’t provide any explanation. Aside from a scattering of feathers in the bottom, it’s clean.

Draco looks up at the sky again, but he doesn’t see any sign of his owls against the soft grey clouds that stretch across the sky. He swipes at his forehead again, the blood going tacky as it starts to dry, and steps back inside.

He’s barely closed the back door behind himself when the door to the shop swings open.

“Draco? Are you all right?” Zelda calls as she comes into the back room. “I thought I heard—” She stops short when she gets a look at him, her eyes going wide. “What happened to you? Bloody hell, sit down, sit down.”

Draco lets Zelda manhandle him onto a stool. “I went to check on the owls,” he says faintly.

“Balin did this to you? Merlin, that horrible thing is a menace.” She slits open the sleeve of his robes with a sharp _Diffindo_ , baring his arm. “Oh. You might have to go to St Mungo’s for that.”

The cuts are deep, bleeding freely. One of them slashes straight across the eyes of the skull on his Dark Mark, and it turns Draco’s stomach how the flesh beneath the scarred skin is mottled grey. “No,” he says quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll take care of it here.”

“Draco—” Zelda begins, but he’s already standing and looking around.

He needs a strong anti-septic, something to clot the blood, and something for the pain wouldn’t go amiss. The cuts are too deep for the paste he normally uses to treat Balin-inflicted injuries. He grabs his wand and spells the blood from his arm, quickly inspecting the cuts. He gets a sickening glimpse of glistening fat before the blood wells up again, but it’s not down to the muscle. He’ll be fine.

“Look, I really think you should go to St Mungo’s,” Zelda tells him. She twitches her wand and Vanishes the blood that’s dripped onto the floor.

“I’ve had worse playing Quidditch,” he says, because it’s true. He’d once cracked his skull on one of the hoops going after the Snitch. Split his head wide open. _That_ had been worth seeing a Healer about. Here, a Healer won’t be able to do anything for Draco that he can’t do himself. “If you want to make yourself useful, go get me a jar of Coagulating Paste from the front. And a pain potion, please.”

Thankfully, she goes without arguing, and Draco carries a bottle of Extra-Strength Anti-Septic Solution over to the sink, takes a deep breath, and pours it over his arm. Even though he’s prepared for it, the way it stings nearly takes his breath away, fizzing sharply and Draco gasps. That fucking burns. He grits his teeth together and tries to breathe through it. Slowly, the stinging subsides, and then Zelda’s back with a squat black jar, open and held out to him.

Draco scoops some of the grey paste onto his fingers and gently dabs it into the wounds, and _oh_. The pain of this makes the Anti-Septic feel like nothing. He feels suddenly light-headed and his knees go weak, and then Zelda’s shoving him down onto the stool again, scooping up paste onto her own fingers and applying it briskly while Draco makes half-strangled sounds and curls the fingers of his other hand hard into his thigh.

The paste has to sit for five minutes while the wound stops bleeding, and Zelda cleans the blood from his face and hair, and carefully wets a cloth with Anti-Septic and cleans the scratch, then dabs a little smear of the Coagulating Paste onto his scalp. That cut isn’t as deep and doesn’t hurt as much, and the slight pain of it is enough to distract from the throbbing agony of his arm.

When the five minutes are up, Draco spells the excess paste away, carefully pinches the gaping edges of the deepest wound together, and has Zelda seal it with a strong Sticking Charm, then repeats the process with the others. Zelda bandages his arm for him, inspects the cut on his head again, then steps back with her arms folded over her chest.

“You are going to go straight to Eeylops and return that awful creature,” she says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a vial of pain potion, uncaps it, and offers it to Draco.

Draco shakes his head as he accepts the vial. “No, that wasn’t Balin being his usual unpleasant self. Balan was behaving strangely, too.” He swallows the dose of pain potion, barely cringing at the bitter taste, and the heavy throb of his arm subsides almost immediately. “Something’s clearly wrong with them both.”

Zelda frowns. “Do you think someone cursed them?”

A curse. Draco hadn’t even considered that. It’s better than his poisoned mouse theory. “I don’t see why anyone would want to,” he says slowly. “But they weren’t behaving that way on their own, I don’t think.”

Zelda bites her lip and glances at the door. “Should we call the Aurors?”

“For a cursed pair of owls?” Draco points out incredulously. “They’ve flown off, anyhow. We’ve got no proof.” He sighs and shakes his head. “We’ll wait until they come back and try to figure it out then. And then if there’s something to summon the authorities over, we’ll do it then. I’m going to go change my robes. Please finish getting the shop ready. And please, for the love of Merlin, don’t breathe a word of this to Dorothea.”

Zelda’s lips twitch up in the faintest hint of a smile at that. “Don’t worry about that. We don’t need all of Diagon Alley knowing you got your arse kicked by a couple of birds.” She pauses, smile slipping, and watches him seriously. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“I am,” he says. “Thank you. And thank you for your help.”

She nods, and he goes up to his flat to change his robes. Between the bloodstains and the shredded arm, they’re beyond repair. He cuts off the worst of the damage and then slices up the remaining fabric into neat squares to take to the Manor. The house-elves will use it for Merlin-knows-what, but they’re always thrilled with fabric scraps.

The sleeve of his clean set of robes fits a little too snugly over his bandaged arm to be entirely comfortable, but anything with looser sleeves will interfere with his brewing so he’ll simply have to tolerate it. It’s not noticeable when he inspects his reflection in the mirror, and that’s all that matters to him.

He tugs at the cuff, and goes back downstairs.

* * * * *

Neither Balan nor Balin have returned by the time Draco closes the shop for the evening. He leaves their cage open and puts a little dish of owl treats inside before laying a Proximity Charm over the entrance. He’ll know as soon as they come home.

He has Zelda refresh the Sticking Charms on his wounds just to be safe. They’d probably have held overnight and Draco’s arm should be healed enough by tomorrow to no longer need them, but better safe than sorry. He certainly doesn’t need to start unexpectedly bleeding all over his bedsheets in the middle of the night. He says as much to Zelda and she snorts and rolls her eyes as she helps him to rebandage his arm before she goes home for the evening.

Draco locks the front door after her, and pauses in the middle of the room to stretch his arms over his head. His back aches terribly, up near his shoulder blades. He likely spent too much time bent over a cauldron today, and now he’s paying for it. His arm has begun to throb again, so he helps himself to another dose of pain potion before heading upstairs for the night and goes straight to put the kettle on for tea.

As he’s waiting for it to boil, he stretches his arms up again, then bends over from the waist. His back still hurts. If anything, the ache has grown worse. For a moment, Draco worries that he’d botched that pain potion and worries about whether he ought to go pull the rest of the vials from that batch from the shelves. But his arm feels fine, not even a hint of pain there anymore. He twists an arm up behind himself and presses where it aches most, and feels hard knots of muscle.

Draco groans and stretches again, then sighs. He’s loathe to take another pain potion with a first dose already in his system, especially if he doesn’t know how it’s gone wrong. He reaches an arm up over his shoulder to rub at his back as he goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower, hot water turned up high. Perhaps that will help him relax him and let the knotted muscles of his back loosen.

But when he finishes his shower, his back still aches and he feels anxious and strangely restless, as if there’s a strange energy curling beneath his skin. The kettle is screaming on the hob, and Draco swishes his wand to set it on a trivet. He pads into the kitchenette and pours himself a cup of tea, leaves it to steep while he dresses in a warm pair of flannel pyjamas.

As he’s taking his cup of tea and a book over to his armchair, he hears the rustle of wings. He diverts to the window, but there’s nothing out there but the empty street, the cold light of the full moon bright enough to see that there’s nothing down there. The Proximity Charm he’d set hasn’t gone off, so Draco draws the curtains and forces himself to sit down, take a sip of tea, and open his book.

But barely five minutes later, he’s shifting restlessly. He yanks the pillow out from behind his back and fluffs it before jamming it back there again. Merlin, his back hurts, the dull ache blossoming suddenly into an insistent itching so sharp it’s painful. He leans forward in his chair and twists one arm behind himself, slips it up the back of his shirt to scratch. His nails dig into tender skin and it feels good for all of two seconds before his nails sink in too deep and then there’s in a bright rush of pain. He can feel his skin splitting and then hot blood gushes over his hand and down his back, and oh Merlin there’s something in there, _there’s something in there_ poking up from underneath his skin, something stiff and bristly.

Draco’s stomach turns over and he yanks his hand away, blood gleaming wet and red from fingertips to wrist. He leaps from the sofa and tears his shirt off, and takes a deep breath and it takes him several long heart-pounding moments before he can force himself to put his hand back there again. Because, Merlin, that’s impossible, surely he’d imagined it. But no, he feels it again, the gaping wound, the blood, and _that thing_ in there, poking out of his back. Draco yanks his hand away and gags. The bathroom, he needs to get to the mirror to see what’s happening to him, because that shouldn’t be there, that isn’t right, this isn’t right.

He takes two steps before the pain overwhelms him, his skin tearing, his bones popping. Draco screams and screams, and—


	4. Chapter 4

Draco wakes up naked and cold and alone.

He knows immediately that he’s outside, even before he opens his eyes. A sharp wind bites at his exposed skin, and dead leaves and twigs prickle uncomfortably beneath the sensitive skin of his bare chest and stomach and thighs. They rustle gently as he shifts a little, testing the pain that seems to have settled into every joint of his body. Draco groans and opens his eyes, and for a moment everything is too bright and blurry. He blinks a few times and squints as his vision slowly focuses. There’s nothing around him as far as he can see, just an endless stretch of trees and scrubby underbrush, everything lit up by pale sunlight slanting down between bare tree branches. When the wind quiets a moment later, it’s dead silent.

His stomach rolls, a sudden wave of nausea stealing his attention before the shock has a chance to fade into panic. His guts cramp sharply, and he barely manages to push himself onto his hands and knees before he retches, throwing up a thin puddle of stomach bile. He coughs and retches again, the foul taste of it bringing up another mouthful. His fingertips dig through soft wet leaves and into cold soil underneath. He coughs, spits, coughs again, and reaches up to swipe the back of his wrist against his mouth when he sees it.

For one long moment, he thinks the cuts on his arm have reopened. 

But there’s too much blood for it to be his. It’s on his hand, no, both hands. Both arms. Merlin, there’s so much. Gasping, he sits back and looks down, stretches out both arms in front of himself, and sees that he’s absolutely _covered_ in it, it’s smeared over his torso and spattered over his legs.

Draco scrambles to his feet and swipes at it with his hands, scrubbing at a wide smear over his ribs. But it’s dried and doesn’t come off. He looks around wildly, but he’s still utterly alone. There’s nothing nearby to provide any clue what’s happened to him.

Or what he might have done.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

The wind picks up again, and Draco folds his arms around himself, shivering. He turns to look behind him, but there’s nothing but trees so far as he can see. He rubs his hands up and down his arms and shifts from foot to foot.

He’s out here alone. He has no idea how he got here, or where exactly _here_ even is. What the hell happened?

“All right,” he tells himself sternly, wrestling his fear back down. “Think.”

There’s got to be a way out of this. All he needs to do is keep a lid on the rising boil of panic until he figures out how to fix it. If he loses his composure, if he falls apart, it won’t help him at all. If he lets his panic overwhelm him, he’ll only be even worse off than he is right now.

He takes a deep breath and tries to think logically. He has another look around the area, but doesn’t see anything. There’s no sign of his pyjamas, or, more importantly, his wand. Strangely, there’s also no sign of how he got here. None of the leaves have been disturbed and there’s no sign of blood anywhere but where he was lying. It’s as if he was dropped down from the sky. There’s nothing but dead leaves and a few twigs and a couple of long black feathers that look to be from a raven? A crow?

He looks up, but there’s nothing but skeletal tree limbs stretching overhead.

“ _Think_ ,” he tells himself again. Start at the beginning. What had be been doing before this happened?

Just before the pain had started, Draco had been sitting in his chair. His back was aching. He’d been drinking tea. Before sitting down, he remembers thinking he heard the rustle of feathers, peeking out onto the empty street lit up by the glow of gaslight and—

And. Oh. _Oh._

The sudden chill that sweeps through Draco’s veins has nothing to do with the temperature. Because the pieces are clicking together. The pain right before his memory ended. Waking alone and disoriented. All of this blood. _The full moon_.

Is that what’s happened? He spreads his hands and looks at the blood smeared over his skin and dried into dark lines in the creases of his palms.

It takes him a minute to work up his nerve, before he can force himself to walk back over to where he woke up. He squats down and picks up a stick and sifts through the patch of leaves where he was sick. To his relief, he doesn’t see blood in it, nor any sort of flesh. He didn’t eat anyone, at least.

Draco groans and drops the stick, presses his hands over his face to stifle a hysterical laugh, because isn’t that just one hell of a silver lining? _He didn’t eat anyone_. Good fucking Merlin, how is this happening to him?

It takes him long minutes to pull himself together again.

Is it even possible to become infected with lycanthropy without a werewolf bite? He has no earthly idea how he could have possibly been exposed to it. Draco wracks his brain, thinking back to the Defence lessons that’d covered werewolves. He’s almost certain lycanthropy is only transmitted through blood and saliva directly from a lycanthrope, and he hasn’t come into contact with either in recent memory, never mind since the last full moon. In fact, the only thing that’s bitten him recently is Balin, and it can’t be that, birds can’t carry...

Oh, fuck. Zelda. When Balin attacked Draco, she helped him patch himself back together. She’d dabbed the Coagulating Paste directly into the cuts. What if he’d infected her, too? What if she’s out there somewhere, as lost and helpless as he is? He’s got to get back He’s got to get back to his wand and he’s got to find her and make sure she’s all right.

Draco stands up and takes a deep breath, centering himself. He’s never had much talent at wandless magic, but he’s got exactly one option right now and this is it.

He’s not stupid enough to try Apparating; a bad Splinching is probably the one thing that could make this hellish situation even worse. He’ll start with something easier. He tries out a few direction spells, trying to work out which way is London, then which way is Wiltshire, then, desperate, which way is Hogwarts. They all fizzle out in useless little puffs. Then he spends a while trying to Conjure a warm set of robes with increasing desperation, then a Warming Charm. He’s so cold that he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He’s shivering so badly that he’s worried he’s not getting the motions right.

After dozens of attempts, he finally manages to produce a feeble Warming Charm, and Draco nearly sobs with relief as it seeps into his skin in a wave of pins-and-needles prickling. It’s not enough to chase away the chill entirely, but Draco hopes it’ll at least be enough to keep him from developing hypothermia.

He takes one last look around him, and then squints up into the sky. It’s a hazy day, with a thin grey layer of clouds that diffuse the sunlight and make it nearly impossible to see which direction it’s coming from. Not that knowing which way is north will really help him, since he’s got no idea where he is, nor in which direction he needs to travel to get to anywhere else.

At a loss for what else to do, Draco picks a direction and starts walking. It’s slow going; the ground is littered with twigs and small stones hidden by dead leaves, and the tender soles of Draco’s feet unerringly find them all. It isn’t long before he’s limping. He makes a few half-hearted attempts to Conjure a sturdy pair of boots, then another few attempts to Conjure some clothing. It feels a bit ridiculous to want clothing when he’s out here all alone and there’s no-one to see him, but he feels so vulnerable with all his skin exposed like this. He cups one hand over his cock and balls, as if that’ll make any sort of difference, and sighs and grits his teeth and keeps walking.

After a while, he comes across a small stream. He knows better than to risk sickness by drinking from it, but he squats down on the bank and scrubs the blood from his hands, his wrists, and then he can’t go on. The water is so cold that the bones in his hands are hurting from it. And even the mere thought of splashing it on his chest and stomach makes him cringe.

He walks and walks. Once he sees a deer. Once he hears a crow cawing off in the distance. Twice, something rustles in the underbrush, but Draco never catches sight of what it is. His Warming Charm slowly dwindles and then disappears entirely, and Draco tries and tries, but is unable to produce another. His feet are bruised and starting to bleed. He’s hungry and thirsty and lost and scared and he has never wanted anything so badly in his life as much as he wants to be home right now.

The light is starting to fade when he comes across a small clearing and there, in the very centre, like the answer to all of his prayers, is a hawthorn tree.

Draco hesitates, lingering at the edge of the clearing, bites his lip and rubs his hands together. This is mad, absolutely mad. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kill himself, because a wand has two parts for a bloody good reason. The wood channels the magic, but the core focuses it, and a proper wand needs both parts to function the way it’s meant to.

But Draco doesn’t know what else to do. He’s lost and alone, naked and wandless, and it’s so cold. He’s got no idea where the closest civilisation is, and even if he finds a town, how can he possibly approach anyone for help? He’s naked and dirty and still half-covered in blood that’s not his own. It’s caked beneath his nails and dried into the creases of his skin. The Muggles will think he’s a madman and have him arrested straightaway. And then what will he do?

He needs to get home, and he’s willing to gamble on this. It’s a risk, yes, but his wand’s hawthorn. His hands know the feel of it, and he’s willing to bet that his magic will recognise it, too. All he needs is one spell. Just one good spell.

Draco scans the clearing before he leaves the relative safety of the treeline, picks his way across dry grass and circles the tree, searching for a suitable branch. He spots one about halfway up, a nice straight length about as wide as his finger, and climbs up. He slips a little, the rough bark scraping against the tender skin on the balls of his feet, but he makes it up. He snaps off his branch and brings it back down, gives it an experimental flick. It’s a bit swishier than his wand, but the wood’s green. He hopes that won’t affect this unduly, but it seems better to use a live branch than a dead one.

He retreats back into the forest and searches around. It takes him a little longer to find a couple of rocks, and he crouches in the pathetic shelter of some shrubbery and uses the rocks to scrape off the bark and smooth out some of the bumps.

What he’s left with when he finishes is incredibly crude, and when Draco looks at it, he nearly cries. This isn’t going to work. He’s going to wave it and nothing will happen and it’s almost night and he doesn’t know what else to _do_.

Then he takes a deep breath, pushes away all of his fear and doubt, and closes his eyes. Destination. He pictures his flat, warm and cosy and safe and _his_. Deliberation. He shakes the tension from his shoulders and grips his wand tightly. Determination. Draco gathers his will, spins on his heel, and _pushes_ his magic with every ounce of strength he’s got.

The hawthorn branch explodes in a backlash of magic that scorches his hand, splinters of wood piercing deep beneath skin. Draco screams, but when he falls to the ground, he lands heavily on the tile floor of his bathroom.

He’s a mess, dirty and covered in blood that’s not his, every inch of him aching, his right hand bleeding badly. He’s Splinched his toenails off, leaving the nailbeds raw and weeping, and Merlin he’s so incredibly lucky it wasn’t worse. The magnitude of what he’s just done hits him then. He’d Apparated with only a tree branch to channel his magic. He could have died. By all rights, he should have killed himself. But he didn’t. It worked, and he’s home, and he still has no idea what happened to him, but he’s home now, he’s safe. Draco curls onto his side, face pressed to the cool tile floor, and cries.

* * * * *

He has no idea how long he spends on the bathroom floor, but he must doze off at some point because it’s fully dark when he jerks awake to a brisk knock on his door. Draco forces himself up and stumbles into his living room, where the streetlight spilling in from the window is enough for him to retrieve his wand from where it’d fallen beside the armchair. He casts a _Lumos_ and then stops short at what he sees. His armchair is spattered with blood, his pyjamas shredded and tangled on the floor, there’s more blood smeared over the hardwood. The skylight is broken, shattered glass scattered over everything below. Draco Vanishes the mess, the ruined clothing and blood, then casts a _Reparo_ on the skylight. He casts a Glamour to hide the dirt and blood on himself and to disguise his injured toes, then slips into his dressing gown, knots it tightly around his waist, and opens the door.

Zelda whirls around from where she’d started to descend the staircase.

“Draco!” she exclaims, and never in his life has he heard someone sound so glad to see him. “Where on earth have you been? I nearly worried myself to death!”

It takes him a moment to make the connection. She’s worried about him. She was worried because he disappeared, which means that she _didn’t_ disappear, which means that he didn’t infect her. Zelda’s safe, thank Merlin. He didn’t infect her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half a beat too late. One hand clutches the collar of his dressing gown closed at his throat and the other, the injured one, he keeps tucked behind him. He leans his shoulder against the edge of the door to hold it half-shut. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Didn’t mean to worry me?” she echoes, her voice going high. She’s gaping at him, her mouth actually hanging open before she goes on, “You disappear for _three bloody days_ without a single word about where you’ve gone or when you’ll be back, and I’m not supposed to worry about you? For all I knew, you were dead!”

Draco blinks. Three days? It’s been three days?

“I was about to go to the Aurors!” Zelda goes on, her voice getting louder, her words coming faster. “I wanted to go straightaway when you didn’t come down to the shop on Sunday and you weren’t answering your door, but they wouldn’t do anything til you’ve been missing for 72 hours even though your parents went down to the Ministry and raised hell about it the very minute I owled them. They’re both worried sick—”

“You owled my parents?” he cuts in.

For a split second, Draco thinks she’s about to hit him. But she slaps her hand against the doorframe instead. “You arse, of course I owled your parents! What else was I supposed to do?”

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to worry you.”

She looks at him and her hand slips off the doorframe and back down to her side. “Then why did you? Draco, what happened? Where have you been?”

The lie comes to him in a sudden burst of inspiration and slips right off his tongue before he can fully consider exactly why it feels so important to hide the truth from her. “It’s entirely my fault,” he says. “I was experimenting with a new formula for Healing Sleep while I was brewing a Sleeping Potion for myself. I must have mislabelled my vials. Accidentally took the wrong one.”

For a moment, he’s not sure if she’ll swallow his story.

But the fear in her expression eases, fading into concern. “I haven’t said anything because it’s none of my business. But I really think you ought to go see a Healer about how you’re not sleeping. I know you don’t like to accept help, but I also know how careful you are with your work, and if you’re tired enough to mislabel an experimental potion…” She shrugs and trails off. “Perhaps this is more than you’re able to handle on your own.”

He’s entirely unprepared for the lump of guilt that settles heavy in the pit of his stomach. “I know,” he says quietly. “And you’re right.”

Zelda nods. “Well, good,” she says, then gives him a smile. “I’m glad you’re all right. Now, owl your mum before she goes to the Aurors, yeah?”

“I will,” he says.

Zelda nods again, then turns and goes downstairs, and Draco listens carefully for the sound of her crossing his lab, leaving through the door. Then, very faintly, the sound of bells as she lets herself out the front door. He waits a few moments before following, creeping down the stairs and out into the shop where he gathers up a dose of pain potion and a jar of Healing Salve to take care of his cuts and a Toenail Tincture to help regrow his nails. He takes the bottle of Anti-Septic from the back before returning to his flat.

After he locks the door behind himself, Draco slips the dressing gown from his shoulders and tosses it into the laundry basket for washing before he goes back into the bathroom with his armload of bottles. He turns on the shower, and while he’s waiting for the water to heat, he fetches a saucer and carefully scrapes off some of the blood on him to test. Three days, he’s missing three whole days. Draco has no idea what happened, but he’s terrified he might’ve killed someone.

Draco inhales slowly, counts to five, and lets it out again. He sets the saucer aside. First he needs to get clean again, then he’ll deal with the rest of it.

He downs the pain potion, then sees to his hand first, carefully tapping his wand to each pinprick injury and Vanishing the splinters of hawthorn one by one. He does the same to his left foot, then his right foot, Vanishing each bit of debris he finds. Very carefully, he dabs the Toenail Tincture onto each of his toes, and feels a protective layer of magic spread over the nail beds to shield them while they heal. He’ll have to keep reapplying it over the next few days until the nails grow back compltely.

The water is hot by the time he finishes and sets his wand aside, clouds of steam rising up and swirling along the ceiling, fogging up the top of the mirror. He steps into the tub and under the spray, and it’s so hot that it stings at first as it warms up his chilled skin. Blood and dirt swirl through the water at his feet as they slough off him in dirty rivulets. The hot water bites at his back, and he twists an arm up behind himself and gingerly feels along the edges of two large scabbed-over gashes between his shoulder blades. He shudders, remembering the sensation of tearing skin, everything slick with blood, and the unknown thing poking up from the wound. Had that really happened? The whole memory is hazy and strange, like a fever dream. He was addled enough to claw open his own back; his recollection of that night may be flawed.

Sighing, he turns around and ducks his face under the spray and reaches for the soap. He scrubs himself twice over before he’s clean, then scrubs himself down one more time just for good measure. He turns around to shut off the water, and notices something caught in the drain.

Bending down, Draco picks up a long black feather. Frowning, he turns it over. It’s long, too long to be a crow. A raven, then? He remembers the other feathers he saw in the forest. This one must have been stuck to him and come off once he got wet. He steps out of the tub and drops the feather in the sink, picks up his wand and casts Drying Charms over himself, then picks up a jar of Healing Salve. It’s a bit of a challenge to rub the medicinal cream over his own back, but he wants to speed the healing of those gashes as much as possible. When he finishes with his back, he slathers the cream over his injured hand and the bottoms of his feet, and wraps his injuries in clean bandages. Then he Vanishes the feather from the sink before switching off the lights and going to get dressed.

Clean and warm and clothed and with his injuries tended to, Draco feels almost human again.

The first thing he does is sit down at his kitchen table and charm a quill to compose a letter to his parents, assuring them of his safety and explaining that he’s been ill, but he’s all right now, and will come see them tomorrow morning. It’s not until he’s downstairs and out the back door that he remembers his owls’ odd behaviour. But they’re both in their cage, Balin with his tailfeathers firmly put toward Draco and Balan perched on top of the cage, a partially-eaten mouse at his feet. He hoots eagerly when he sees Draco and hops closer.

Cautiously, Draco reaches out and touches him, gently petting his feathered back.

“All right, now, are you?” he murmurs. He still means to test them both for curses, but he hasn’t got the energy for it tonight. And that was quite likely the first thing Zelda would have done when they returned, he’ll have to ask her about it tomorrow. “Finish your supper, then please take this letter to Malfoy Manor.” He sets the envelope down atop the cage, and leaves Balan to his mouse.

There are two things he needs to do, two questions he needs answers to: can he confirm that he’s a werewolf, and what or whose blood did he wake up covered in?

He’s already down in his lab, so he starts with the latter.

The recipe for a Blood Analysis potion is simple, but Draco’s never had cause to brew it and it takes him sorting through three different tomes to find the instructions for one that will suit his purposes.

He’s lucky that it’s easy enough that doesn’t take much thought because he’s having difficulty concentrating. His hands tremble as he measures out two cups of purified water and grinds up moonstone with his mortar and pestle. He finishes adding ingredients to the cauldron and brings the mixture to a rolling boil before he fetches the saucer from upstairs.

This is it. As terrified as he is of the answer, it’s better to know for sure.

Draco holds his breath as he scrapes a few dried flecks of blood into the cauldron, then waits as a cloud of steam slowly rises, his stomach turning over. There’s a chance it wasn’t a person at all. It might’ve been an animal. A deer or a rabbit or a—

The swirling steam condenses, and Draco’s heart drops down to his toes even before it finishes condensing into the unmistakable shape of a man.

The saucer shatters as it slips from Draco’s nerveless fingers and crashes to the floor. The sound of smashing porcelain startles him, and he whips out his wand, Vanishes the broken pieces, Vanishes the potion and its condemning results, and _Scourgifies_ the cauldron clean. Another swish of his wand smothers the flame from beneath it.

He’d known this, tried to prepare himself for this. The night he disappeared was a full moon. His understanding is that a werewolf changes back the following morning so it doesn’t explain the additional two days he’s missing, but what other creature could he have become? Everyone knows how dangerous werewolves are, how they transform into mindless killers with the full moon. Draco spent time in dangerously close quarters with Greyback. He _knows_.

Draco takes the stairs up to his flat two at a time, then flicks his wand to open the trapdoor and pull down the rickety wood ladder that leads up to the attic. He casts a _Lumos_ and goes straight for the boxes of china his mother foisted upon him, digging through them until he finds the large flat case of silver. His hand trembles as he flips open the clasps and lifts the lid. He takes a deep breath and feels it quivering in the bottom of his lungs as he holds it. He reaches out, closes his eyes, and presses his hand down.

His fingers come to rest on a stack of teaspoons, and the silver is cool and smooth. His flesh doesn’t sizzle. Nothing burns.

Not a werewolf. He’s not a werewolf.

The air bursts out of him in a rush of relief and he sags forward, but that relief is short-lived.

Because if he isn’t a werewolf, then what the fuck has happened to him?

* * * * *

The following morning, Draco wakes filled with dread. He goes through his morning routine, sets up his lab for brewing, and waits for Zelda to get in. He paces for a minute, then goes outside and casts a full range of detection spells on his owls. Balan tolerates it while looking tremendously put-upon, but Balin keeps trying to bite Draco’s wand and has to be _Stupefied_.

Draco can’t find a trace of magic on either one of them. Sighing, he releases Balin from the spell and goes back inside, and finds that Zelda has arrived for the day.

“You’ll be on your own for a while this morning, I’m afraid,” he says. “I need to go home and I expect I’ll be there for a while.”

Zelda gives him a sympathetic look, which doesn’t bode at all well for Draco. “Best of luck,” she says. “Don’t worry about anything here, I’ve got it all under control.”

She’s still being nice to him instead of giving him sass. This definitely does not bode well for him. He wonders briefly exactly how much of a fuss his parents raised at the Ministry, then promptly decides he’s far better off not knowing.

“I know you do,” he says, then reaches for his cloak. “Oh, while I was indisposed, the owls came back. Did you examine them?”

Zelda nods as she opens the till and scoops out a handful of Knuts. “I did. Didn’t see a single thing wrong with them, aside from Balin’s dreadful disposition.”

“Hm,” Draco says, whipping the cloak around his shoulders and fastening the silver clasp at his throat. “I couldn’t find anything the matter, either. I suppose we’ll just have to keep an eye on them, but perhaps whatever was wrong has simply run its course.”

“Here’s hoping,” Zelda says.

Draco sincerely hopes so too. He’s got much larger problems to attend to.

He leaves Zelda to open the shop and takes the Floo to Malfoy Manor. He steps out into the entrance hall and spells soot from his shoes before stepping out onto the gleaming white marble floor. A house-elf pops into being at his elbow just in time to take his cloak, carefully Levitating it onto a nearby coat rack without touching. Draco hands off the bundle of fabric squares he’d salvaged from his ruined robes, and the house-elf takes it with a squeak of joy and a murmured, “Master is too kind!” then vanishes with another soft pop.

Draco sighs and squares his shoulders. At this time, his parents should be finished with their breakfast but will still be lingering in the morning room with cups of tea and the _Prophet_.

Best get it over with. It’s bound to be unpleasant, but these are just moments in time. All he has to do is let them pass. Taking a deep breath, Draco heads into the East Wing of the Manor where, exactly as he’d predicted, his parents are both at the table with cups of tea at their elbows and the _Prophet_ spread between them.

“Good morning,” he says from where he’s lingering near the doorway.

Both of his parents look up at once and come to their feet. Narcissa hurries across the room, Lucius barely half a step behind her.

“Draco,” she says, pulling him into a rough hug, and Draco has to force himself to not tense up, to relax into the embrace and put his arms around her.

Narcissa doesn’t often give herself over to such open displays of physical affection, and it’s always such a shock to feel how slight she is. She carries herself with such an air of strength, all sharp words and formidable glances, that he often forgets how little space she actually takes up.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, awkwardly patting her back. He lets his head fall a little, tucking his chin so that his cheek brushes against his mother’s hair, because he doesn’t think he can say this if either of them can see his face. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I made a very foolish mistake with my labelling. What I thought was a vial of Dreamless Sleep was actually Healing Sleep.” He looks up again, over the top of his mother’s head at Lucius. “I’m fine, though. I promise I’m fine.”

Narcissa sniffs once as she pulls back, her hands grasping his elbows, and Draco looks down at her, alarmed, but her eyes are dry. “Do not,” she says firmly, “ _ever_ do that to us again.”

“I won’t,” Draco says quickly, eyes darting from his mother to his father and back again. Lucius’s expression is inscrutable; his mother’s is stern but with the last dregs of stifled fear lingering behind her eyes and in the way she keeps her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I’m sorry, I won’t,” he assures them, and wants nothing more than for this conversation to be over.

It’s every bit as painful as he anticipated it would be. He ends up sitting with his parents at the table and having tea, reassuring them over and over that yes, he’s fine, and no, it won’t happen again, and yes, he’s going to see a Healer for his exhaustion, and no, there’s truly no reason to worry. He’s afraid they can see the truth, that he’s scared, that he has no idea what’s happened or whether it might happen again. He’s afraid they can look at him and somehow know he’s killed someone.

Potentially killed someone, he reminds himself. Possibly might have killed someone. He doesn’t know for sure; he might not have, he has to hold onto that hope.

Eventually the questions taper off, and Lucius picks up the paper again. The front page is taken up entirely by an article about strengthening the laws banning werewolves from public spaces. Draco slips from the room and heads to the library for the other reason he came here this morning.

Normally, Draco finds himself relaxing the very moment he sets foot in the Manor’s library, his shoulders lowering as tension he wasn’t even aware he’d been carrying melts away. It’s all dark wood shelves with rows upon rows of neatly organised books, dark wood parquet floors, and a big fire roaring away with an overstuffed leather sofa and two matching chairs ringed around the hearth.

But today the tension follows him across the threshold and across the room to the shelves in the far corner where the oldest and darkest books of magic reside. Draco browses quickly, fingers tracing over cracked leather spines, casting furtive looks over his shoulder. He hopes he can find it soon, before his parents think to come after him. He pulls down a book and flicks quickly through its pages before replacing it on the shelf, nudging it so that it sits with its spine perfectly aligned with the books on either side of it, then takes down another.

Footsteps in the hall give him just enough warning to slide the book back into place on the shelf and take five large strides to a section dedicated to various encyclopaedias of Herbology. He pulls down a thin cloth-bound volume filled with detailed drawings of magical fungi native to Sardinia and flips it open a second before Lucius steps into the room.

“There you are,” he says, crossing the room, the heels of his boots clicking with each measured step.

Draco looks up from his book, letting it fall closed with one finger tucked between the pages to keep his place. “Did you need me for something?” he asks.

“No,” Lucius says, glancing down at the book in Draco’s hand. “Is this for your experiments?”

“Hm?” Draco looks down at the book. “Oh, yes.”

Lucius doesn’t speak again, and this is what Draco was afraid of. Because if his father’s come after him for some mundane reason, he’d have no trouble at all saying it. But if he’s come after Draco because he’s worried… Well. Neither of them has ever been good at this sort of thing. And Draco’s already apologised, what more can he say?

Lucius coughs once. “Do you think you’ll stay for lunch?” he asks.

“No,” Draco tells him. “I’ve got to get back to the shop soon.”

“Hm,” Lucius says, and leaves the room.

As soon as he’s gone, Draco replaces the Herbology book and hurries back to the other shelf. Lucius has probably gone to get Narcissa, and that means Draco doesn’t have long to find what he needs.

He gets lucky with the fifth book he pulls down to get a better look at. The leather binding creaks as he opens it and carefully turns to the title page, where the unimaginative yet adequately informative title _Blood Magic_ sprawls across the yellowed parchment in bold black ink. Even though Draco’s sure that what he needs is in this book, he still rifles through it until he finds the page detailing a potion for testing the purity of one’s blood, with a footnote on how to adjust the potion to test the purity of one’s soul.

Just looking at it fills him with dread. But if Draco has killed someone, this is the fastest way to find out. And he needs to know. He can’t go on with this uncertainty hanging over his head.

A quick swish of his wand resettles the rest of the books on that shelf, spacing them out to hide the gap left by the one he’s taken. He’s turning to leave the room, book shrunk down and safely stowed inside his pocket, when Narcissa sweeps into the library.

“Oh, Draco,” she says, sounding faintly surprised. “Are you leaving so soon?”

“Mm,” he says. “Shop’s open. I left Zelda to mind it, but I’ll need to go relieve her for her lunch soon.”

Narcissa looks like she very much wants to argue with him, but she inhales sharply through her nose and gives him a nod. “Very well. I’ll see you to the Floo.”

Draco’s known his mother for far too long to think she’ll really let him off this easily.

She walks him to the entrance hall, and sure enough, she waits until he’s put on his cloak and has taken up a handful of Floo Powder before she says to him, “We’ll be having poached salmon tonight. I’ll have the house-elves delay dinner until seven o’clock.”

Narcissa hasn’t even bothered to phrase it as an invitation, and Draco’s still feeling guilty enough for scaring her and Lucius that he doesn’t argue. “I’ll see you at seven, then,” he says before turning to the Floo.

Draco arrives back at his shop just in time to send Zelda off to lunch. As soon as she’s safely out the door, he takes the book from his pocket and restores it to full size, reading through it behind the counter in between ringing up sales. As he moves around the shop to assist browsing witches and wizards with their selections, he slips a vial of powdered unicorn horn, a vial of powdered moonstone, and a little jar of honey into his pocket.

When Zelda comes back, he leaves her to mind the front and goes into his lab. For a moment he’s tempted to slip through the doorway to his secondary space, but several of the ingredients he needs are non-kosher and he can’t bring himself to contaminate that space. It’s not immediately obvious that the potion he’s brewing involves blood magic until the very end; if Zelda interrupts him, she won’t be able to tell he’s doing anything suspicious.

As far as blood magic goes, this isn’t even a terribly dangerous bit of spellwork. But it would raise all sorts of questions that Draco would rather not have to answer.

The potion isn’t all that complicated—the oldest ones never are—but it requires more stirring than most, boiling for a long time over a hot flame until the color leaches from it in big puffs of steam that slowly fade from red to pink to white. When the potion is as clear as crystal and the steam coming off it is as stark as freshly-fallen snow, Draco removes it from the heat and lets it cool for an interminable forty-five minutes, during which he does a lot of pacing, a lot of worrying, and completely botches a Headache Potion.

When the Purity Potion is finally cool, Draco decants it into a glass jar and carries it across the room to set on the windowsill, where the afternoon sunlight will make it easy to watch for changes. Even though he very rarely sees anyone else in the alleyway, he still takes the time to cast a Mirror Charm over the glass of the windowpanes so no-one can see inside. Then Draco Conjures a pin and pricks his finger. Very carefully, he squeezes two drops of blood into the jar and then sticks his finger into his mouth, crouching down to watch for a reaction at eye-level. There’s a faint golden shimmer as the blood drops dissolve, red fading to pink, and then… nothing.

The mixture remains perfectly clear, without even a hint of the murkiness that would indicate a corrupted soul. The blood didn’t blacken on contact. Draco exhales, slumping against his worktable. There’s no corruption. He hasn’t killed anyone.

It still doesn’t answer the question of what the bloody hell happened to him, but he’s not a murderer. At least there’s that.

* * * * *

One week passes, and then another, and everything continues on as normal. Draco continues to brew, he has a long Floo-Call with David to trade the results of their latest experiments, he has a quick lunch with Katie, and none of his research on what might’ve happened to him turns up anything even remotely useful.

He’s begun to relax a little, half-convinced that whatever curse had affected him has simply run its course. That still leaves the worrisome question of who might have cast it and why, but what can he do about that? He can’t go to the Aurors, he’ll have to tell them that someone died, and they’ll take one look at the Mark on his arm and lock him away. At the very least, there’ll be a record of his disappearance on a full moon, and even though testing will show that he’s not a werewolf, he still wants no part of that whole mess. The debate over what rights a werewolf should be allowed to have is still raging, and Draco plans to keep entirely out of it.

So he tries to figure it out on his own, but the few pieces he knows aren’t enough to narrow down exactly which curse was used. So he lets himself sink into the small routines of his day-to-day life, and wraps himself in the hope that whatever happened to him is over.

It’s a nice fantasy, while it lasts.

The first sign he gets that the curse has not ended comes exactly fourteen days after his disappearance, when the strange nightmares return. He dreams he’s trapped in a room so dark he might as well be blind, shuffling forward one cautious step at a time with his hands outstretched before him. He knows he’s not alone in here, he can hear something moving in the darkness. It rustles behind him, then again, closer. Long seconds of silence pass where the only sound echoing in Draco’s ears is the harsh cadence of his panting breath. And then a soft sweep of feathers brushes against his cheek.

Two mornings after that, he wakes to a tap-tap-tapping on his window. The sparrow has returned.

* * * * *

It seems to follow the same pattern as before. Draco has nightmares, he grows more and more exhausted, more irritable, more distracted. And slowly, Draco becomes aware of the strange behaviour of birds. That bloody sparrow, for one. But he also begins to notice how the peacocks at the Manor watch him as he passes by, beady eyes unwaveringly fixed upon him. A crow follows him down Diagon, raspy caws echoing through the quiet evening. Balan begins to shy away from Draco’s touch, and Balin grows more aggressive. Twice, Draco swears he hears the heavy flap-flap-flapping of wings from above.

But when he looks up, nothing’s there.

Two days before the full moon, Draco’s no closer to finding an answer than he was when he started. It’s going to happen to him again, and this time he’ll be ready for it. He has the slight advantage this time of being able to prepare for it.

He tells his parents and Zelda that he needs to travel to Belgium for a few days to meet with a potential supplier, and that he’ll be leaving Monday night and will be gone through Thursday. He leaves Zelda in charge of running the shop.

The night of the full moon, Draco can’t tell how much of his agitation is that strange restlessness he felt the first time, and how much of it is anxious anticipation because now he knows what’s coming. His back had been aching all afternoon, and the dull pain grows steadily worse as sundown approaches. Draco ends up closing up shop a full ten minutes early, and goes upstairs to prepare. 

First, he casts heavy wards over the walls of the flat, both to keep himself inside and to hide the fact that he’s up here. Then he opens up the skylight and the windows, shivering a little at the chilly air that floods in, in case the wards aren’t enough to stop him. He doesn’t want to break them again. Then he sets up a camera on his kitchen table, carefully angling it so it will capture him if he stands in the middle of the living room. It’s charmed to snap a photo every three seconds as soon as it’s activated. Then Draco takes off his clothes and sets them aside and takes out the two wrist cuffs he’s spent the last few days charming.

The first one is layered with every single diagnostic charm Draco can think to use. He clasps it tightly around his left wrist and activates it with a swish of his wand. The charmwork flickers to life, the magic in it a steady comfort against his wrist. It’ll record every pulse of magic from now until he takes it off, and then hopefully he’ll be able to work backward to figure out what’s happening to him.

The second is a large button threaded onto a leather cord. He knots it around his right wrist, and then carefully wraps it up in a long strip of cloth to keep it safe, then a second strip of cloth that he’s kept soaking in Spell-B-Gone Cauldron Soap all afternoon. The button—a Portkey back home—shouldn’t affect the diagnostic charms, but Draco’s taking no chances with getting an accurate magical reading. The Cauldron Soap-soaked cloth _should_ work to absorb and nullify any magic from the Portkey. It’ll be like it’s not even there, as far as the diagnostic charms will show.

The pain in his back has grown bad enough that he’s having trouble thinking of anything else. He paces back and forth a few times, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He shivers, checks the cuff on his left wrist and the cord on his right, and then flicks his wand at the camera as the pain between his shoulder blades rises to an agonising crescendo. His wand clatters to the floor and he doubles over, crouching, forehead tucked nearly to his knees, and as his spine curves he feels the skin tear open. Draco screams, reaches up to claw at his shoulders, screams again, and the last thing he remembers is the bright flash and the steady click-click-click of the camera.

* * * * *

Draco wakes up in a forest again.

Even though he’d expected this and had done his best to prepare for it to happen again, it’s still a shock to find himself naked in the middle of nowhere with no memory of what’s happened. He groans and forces himself to sit up, and swallows against the sudden wave of nausea. His head is swimming, vision blurry, and every inch of him aches like he’s been slammed by a dozen Bludgers. His skull pounds, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Draco blinks, squinting, and looks around. This isn’t where he was before. This time he’s in a pine forest, evergreen branches overhead cutting up the sunlight into dappled patterns that shift across the forest floor with each breeze. Draco shivers and another wave of nausea rises up, irrepressible this time. His mouth floods with a sudden rush of saliva and Draco hunches over, gagging, and brings up a few foul mouthfuls of stomach bile before he retches hard and something solid slips up the back of his throat and sits suddenly on his tongue in a solid lump. Draco spits out what looks like a slimy wad of algae, greeny-grey and stringy, and Draco shudders and spits a few times in an effort to get rid of the taste, wipes at his mouth, and spits again.

The wad of algae reeks of brackish water and rot, and the smell and sight of it make his stomach wobble alarmingly. He’s got to get out of here, he needs to not be here anymore. He needs to go home. He braces his hands against the ground and forces himself up to his feet.

A sudden shock of pain radiates through his leg and it nearly gives out on him. Draco bites back a scream as he loses his balance and sits down hard, breathes through the pain and looks down to see how bad the damage is. It looks like most of the blood he’s got on him this time is his own. There’s some spattered over his right side where he’s got no visible injuries, but most of it looks like it’s come from a deep gash high up on his left thigh that’s bled all down his leg. Standing up just now cracked open where it’d begun to scab over, and it’s started to bleed again.

Draco reaches down to press a hand to it to slow the bleeding, and catches sight of his left wrist. And no, _no_.

The cuff he’d fastened around his wrist is ruined, twisted and blackened, and the skin of his arm is blistered around it. He touches the cuff, and it crumbles, and Draco panics. Losing the information from the cuff is a misfortune, but if he’s lost the Portkey too, that’s a _disaster_. Terrified, he tears off the cloth wound around his Portkey, and goes lightheaded with relief when he finds the button shiny and undamaged. Draco clasps it tightly between his palm and his wrist, breathes out a heartfelt, _“Thank you, Merlin,_ ” then closes his eyes and pushes out with his magic to trigger it.

The world spins and disappears in a dizzying rush, and then he’s sitting on his living room floor. For a moment he thinks he’s going to sick up again, but he focuses on keeping his breathing slow and even and tries to keep from thinking of the lump of vegetable matter he’d brought up before, _definitely_ avoids wondering whether there’s any more of that in his stomach, and slowly the nausea ebbs away.

Shivering, he reaches for his wand and flicks it, closing all the windows and the skylight, then again to warm the flat to a cosy temperature.

It takes a few minutes before he can bring himself to stand, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa for balance, then hobbles into the bathroom. He’d prepared this time and stashed a full array of healing potions in his flat. He downs a strong pain potion and then sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and stretches his leg out before him to drip an anaesthetic into the gash before cleaning it out, then prods it a little, examining it. The bleeding’s sluggish enough that he’s very tempted to skip the Coagulating Paste, but he might come to regret that later if he does, so he sighs and grits his teeth and slathers it on. Between the pain potion and the anaesthetic he’s put directly onto the gash, it only stings a little.

Exhaling and forcing himself to loosen muscles he’d unconsciously braced against the pain, Draco casts a _Tempus_ , then reaches up to scratch idly at an itch on his shoulder while he waits for the medicine to work on his thigh. His fingers find something there, something stuck to him. He picks a fingernail under it and peels it off, and can feel it unsticking all the way across his back in a thin shower of crusted blood flaking loose.

It’s a feather. A long, black feather. Draco turns it over in his hands, frowning, then uses the edge of the sink to lever himself to his feet. He puts his back to the mirror and twists a little to look over his shoulder.

His back is stained with blood, dried and flaking off in patches. He’s got two large scabbed-over gashes between his shoulder blades. And stuck to his back is a second feather.

Reaching up behind himself, Draco peels that one off too, and remembers with a sudden, visceral jolt the feel of something stiff and bristly poking up through his skin the first time this happened.

“No,” he says, staring down at the feathers. Because, no, that’s impossible. The only creatures that can sprout wings were full-blooded Veela, and even then it’s extremely rare. And Draco’s a pureblood; he can recite his ancestry on both sides tracing back twenty generations just as easily as he can recite the alphabet, and had learnt how to do both when he was a child.

He can’t be a Veela. Not only is it entirely impossible, he’s never heard of a Veela who changes involuntarily with each full moon.

Is he some sort of terrible Veela-werewolf hybrid? Is that even possible?

Draco drops the feathers into the sink and runs water over them to soak the blood out, then turns on the shower, and mulls it over while he finishes tending to his leg. He spells the excess Coagulating Paste from the gash, then carefully pinches the edges of the wound together and seals it with a Sticking Charm, spreads a Healing Salve over it, and casts an _Impervius_ over it to keep it from getting wet.

He lets himself soak beneath the warm spray, letting the hot water loosen the dirt and blood that’s stuck to him, sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, doing his best to blank his mind and let the tension flow out of him and down the drain. Then he reaches for the soap to get himself clean again.

By the time he finishes his shower, he’s got no better of an idea as to what he might have become than he did when he started. At least he’s got a better direction for his research. And he still hasn’t looked at the photographs from the night of the full moon. They might provide further clues. Draco dries off, then dresses in his warmest flannel pyjamas and wraps up in his dressing gown. It feels strangely indulgent to wear his pyjamas during the daytime, but he figures he deserves it, given what he’s just been through.

He considers making tea before sitting down, but decides that he’s put this off long enough. He pushes down the memory of pain, the echo of his skin tearing open, and takes a seat at his kitchen table.

The camera sits exactly where he’d left it, and right beside it is a small pile of glossy photographs, left in a haphazard stack where the camera had spit them out. The camera’s a new invention, supposedly based off something the Muggles have got, that makes the pictures appear right away. Draco bought it specifically for this so he didn’t have to bother with developing the film himself.

The top photo in the stack shows his empty living room, the sheer white curtains hung by the window twitching slightly in the faint breeze. So does the second, and the third.

Draco turns over the stack so they’re upside down but in chronological order. He flips the first photo over, and watches the short loop of himself hunched over, trembling and in pain.

He flips the second photo, and sees himself reach up to claw at his back, his hands coming away red and wet.

He flips the third photo, and sees his head jerk up, eyes completely white and bright with some terrible inner glow. He’s crying, big tears running down his face. His mouth is open in a scream.

Draco’s hand trembles when he reaches out to flip the fourth photo over. He sees himself shake violently, the shivering progressing to brutal convulsions. He pitches forward and something black and spiky can be seen piercing through his skin, sprouting up between his shoulder blades.

Draco flips the photos faster, sees himself regain enough control to claw at his back again. Sees the clumps of black feathers become larger. He flips, flips, flips the photos and sees himself shake and scream and cry until an enormous pair of jet black wings have appeared, grown up and out from his back. He sees the wings unfurl and flap in powerful sweeps that carry him up through the skylight and out into the night.

“Merlin,” he breathes, pressing one hand to his mouth and dropping the stack of photos onto the table. That was certainly not a Veela. Draco has no idea what the fuck that was. He shudders, and the wounds on his back throb.

He sorts through the photos, Vanishes the later ones that show his empty flat, and spreads the ones detailing his transformation over the tabletop. He watches them loop, examines them carefully until the horror of watching himself change, over and over, becomes too much. He sweeps them into a stack and takes them across the room to his wizard’s wireless. He lifts the lid and slips the photos into the little compartment that houses the phonograph player, then closes it and seals it shut with a spell.

Not that anyone else ever sets foot inside his flat, but Draco will take no chances on these being discovered. If it gets out that this is happening to him, his life will be as good as over. It’ll drive away all his customers and he’ll lose his business. He’ll be forced to submit to testing and registration, caught up in the legal tangle of laws regarding lycanthropy. Even though Draco can prove he’s not a werewolf, many of the laws are worded vaguely enough that his _monthly transformation_ will be enough to condemn him.

But he’s got more information now. He’s got enough to give him a direction to start looking.

He’ll figure it out. He has to figure it out, because he can’t go through this again.

It’ll be all right, he tells himself. It’s all going to be fine.


	5. Chapter 5

With more information to guide his search and the memory of his most recent transformation still lurking vividly at the forefront of his mind, Draco throws himself into his research with renewed vigor. With two feathers from the creature he’d turned into, Draco allows himself a bit of cautious optimism. But that optimism fades as each and every one of the increasingly nuanced tests Draco runs on the feathers return the same result, over and over: 100% pureblood wizard. He searches the Manor and browses through several bookshops, but can’t find any mention of any sort of creature that matches the description of what he becomes on the full moon, nor can he find any mention of a curse that might induce such a change.

Two weeks after his second change, on the night of the new moon, the nightmares begin again. He dreams of a broad, golden field. He’s trapped in place, staked to the ground with his arms spread in a perfect T. Bright sunshine makes everything glow golden-warm. High up above, a crow circles around and around and around.

Draco shoves himself out of bed and presses his hands to his face. He can’t do this. It’s going to happen again, and he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t know what to do. Panic rises up inside him, pressing against his lungs and making his breath go fluttery with the inexplicable urge to laugh.

He needs help. At first he’d been determined to deal with this on his own, fear of retaliation and an inexplicable sense of shame at what’s happened to him had combined to weigh heavily enough upon him to convince him to keep it a secret. But he still has no idea what’s happened to him, and no idea how to stop it from happening again. This is more than he can handle on his own.

It’s a Monday, and that feels like kismet. His parents aren’t expecting him over until later on in the day, but if he waits that long, he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. Draco rushes through his morning routine and dresses in a set of fine black wool robes with a high collar and a row of tiny jet buttons up the back, skips breakfast and goes downstairs. He paces back and forth twice, calming his nerves and gathering his will, before he steps through the Floo to Malfoy Manor.

He waves off the house-elf who appears to see him in, and goes straight for the morning room where he finds Lucius reading the paper with a plate of half-eaten toast beside him. He looks up, lowering the paper, as Draco comes to a stop just inside the doorway.

“Draco,” he says, and a little line appears between his brows as his forehead creases in silent question. Draco never comes over this early.

“Where’s Mother?” Draco asks, because this is going to be horrible enough to explain, he won’t be able to bring himself to do it twice.

“Indisposed at the moment,” Lucius says, and now he’s frowning. “Is something the matter?”

Draco opens his mouth to say _no_ , but it’s such a blatant lie that the word lodges in his throat. “There’s something important I wish to discuss with you,” he says instead. “I’d rather only say it once.”

“Very well,” Lucius says, leaning back in his chair, and gestures at an empty seat at the table. “Join me while we wait. Would you like some breakfast?”

“No, thank you,” Draco says, faintly confused why the announcement of something important to discuss seems to have set his father at ease. “I’ve already eaten, but I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

Lucius snaps his fingers, and a house-elf appears at his elbow.

“Bring a cup for Draco,” he says without looking down at it, attention still focused on Draco. “Are you sure you won’t have anything? Some toast? The house-elves could make you eggs and bacon.”

“No,” Draco says. “I’m fine.” He looks to the house-elf and repeats, “I’m fine. Just a cup of tea would be wonderful.”

The house-elf pops off to do his bidding, and Lucius offers Draco a section of the morning _Prophet_ , and Draco takes it just for something to do. It’s the financial section, and Draco would rather have the society section, but that’s folded neatly beside Narcissa’s plate, and Draco honestly doesn’t think he’ll be able to focus well enough to retain any of the stories, anyhow.

Lucius raises his own section of the paper again, and there staring Draco right in the face from the front page is an enormous spread about Remus Lupin. Today would have been his 43rd birthday, according to the headline, and Draco can’t breathe. He must make some small involuntary sound, because his father looks up at him, then follows his stare to the paper. 

“Oh, that,” he says when he sees where Draco is looking. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Lucius glances over at him again, and mistakes his blank stare for confusion. “Apparently there’s one of _those_ who’s recently been fired from the Ministry,” Lucius says. “He claims it’s because of his _condition_ and is kicking up quite a fuss about it.” Lucius sniffs and gives his paper a little shake to straighten it. “They know they can’t rely on facts—anyone in his right mind knows that it’s utterly absurd to allow one of those creatures to work in such close quarters with some of the most important and influential wizards in London—so they’re trying to sway public opinion in their favour with sheer sentimental twaddle.”

“Oh,” says Draco faintly.

Lucius shakes his head and tuts disapprovingly, most of his attention now back on his newspaper. “You simply can’t trust something that transforms into a mindless beast once a month, no matter how nicely it behaves the rest of the time. Bringing up the fact that Mister Lupin used to work in a school and spent so much time in close quarters with children is only undermining the point they’re trying to make.” He shrugs, settling more comfortably in his chair. “And in any case, Mister Lupin was properly ashamed of what he was. He lived in exile for a number of years—quite wisely, I might add—until he was dragged back and pushed into the front of a classroom.”

The house-elf returns then with a cup of tea on a saucer, and stretches up on its toes to place it on the table at Draco’s side.

“Ah, there we are. Are you certain you won’t have something to eat, Draco?”

“No,” Draco says, looking down at the house-elf waiting expectantly at his side. “Thank you, you may go.”

Lucius hums, a small _suit yourself, then_ sound, and holds up the paper again so that Remus Lupin looks out at Draco from the photograph with a kind smile and tired eyes that Draco can’t bring himself to meet.

It would be better if Lucius was angry about it. Or disgusted. Or appalled. But his casual indifference, the almost-distracted way he dismisses the matter entirely as if werewolves are of a stature so far below him that they’re hardly worth commenting upon, sends a cold shock sweeping through Draco’s veins. Anyone in their right mind knows how absurd it is, Lucius had said, so there’s no point in getting worked up, is there?

The idea of his father dismissing him just as entirely frightens Draco almost more than the idea of transforming again. Lucius has always valued blood purity above all else. He fought in two wars for his belief in it. And though Draco has never asked and Lucius has never said, he’s sure that his father’s killed for it as well. Draco knows, he _knows_ , that his father loves him. He loves Draco, and he supported him through opening his apothecary, and he has accepted that one day Draco will fall in love with another man and marry him. But a shopkeeper is a _person_ , and a gay man is a _person_. Draco has never doubted that Lucius loves his only son; but he doesn’t know whether Lucius will still look at Draco and see his beloved child if he knew about the creature Draco’s become.

His hands begin to tremble, and Draco tucks his fingers under his knees, curling his nails into the brocade upholstery of the chair’s seat. He strokes his thumb slowly, gold threads catching on the corner of his thumbnail in small _tick-tick-tick_ s he can feel but can’t hear.

Narcissa eventually comes to the table, and pauses for the slightest moment before taking her seat. “Good morning, Draco,” she says, and Draco glances up just in time to catch the tail end of the querying look she’d aimed at Lucius.

Lucius, in turn, looks expectantly to Draco, eyebrows raised, clearly waiting for him to make whatever announcement he’d come here to make.

Instead, Draco murmurs, “Good morning,” to his mother and escapes saying anything further by occupying his mouth with a sip of tea.

Draco watches his parents communicate silently in the complicated combinations of understated eyebrow raises and subtle glances that they wield as fluently as a second language. They’ve been using it to communicate over his head for as long as he can remember. Privately, Draco thinks it’s become so much of a habit that they’re not even aware they’re doing it half the time. Over the years he’s picked up enough to read that Narcissa wants to know why Draco is here, and Lucius has told her that he doesn’t know, but let Draco come around to it when he’s ready.

“Mm,” Narcissa hums beneath her breath as she lifts her teacup to her lips, and Lucius raises his section of the _Prophet_ again.

Narcissa glances at the front page of the paper Lucius is holding. “Oh, that again,” she says. “Isn’t it distasteful how they keep raising the dead to suit their own agendas?”

“Mm,” Lucius says distractedly. “Draco and I were just discussing that.” He turns a page in a faint rattling of newsprint.

One of the threads snaps beneath Draco’s thumbnail, and he yanks his hand away. He can’t do this. He can’t. Coming here was a mistake, thinking that they’d, that he’d—

Draco takes another gulp of his tea, sets his cup back onto its saucer, and stands.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered something I need to take care of,” he says. “I’ll be back in time for dinner, but I. I’ve got to go now.”

Narcissa starts to put her teacup down, but Lucius holds a hand in her direction as he stands up. “I’ll see you to the Floo,” he says, and glances down to exchange a look with Narcissa.

Draco can’t stand to see what they’re saying to each other that they don’t want to put into words in front of him, and a surge of annoyance crackles through him. Draco pushes it back down, says goodbye to his mother, and turns to leave the morning room with Lucius keeping pace at his side without saying a word, until they reach the entrance hall.

“I hope,” says Lucius in a deceptively mild voice, “that you know that you can speak to us about anything. Or that if you need something of us, you need only ask.”

“I know,” Draco says, fingers itching for the Floo Powder.

Lucius exhales slowly through his nose, not quite a disappointed sigh but as close as he’d ever allow himself to come to a gesture so melodramatic as that. “Good,” he says, then gives Draco a significant look. “Then I’ll see you for dinner.”

Draco doesn’t look at his father as he scoops Floo Powder with shaking fingers, spills a little on the mantle and spells it clean before he tosses his handful into the Floo and goes back to his flat.

His own copy of the _Prophet_ is still sitting on the table where he’d left it in his hurry to leave his flat that morning, neatly-rolled and untouched, but when Draco knocks it to the floor in a childish fit of temper, it unfurls and flops open.

There’s a second part to the front-page article, a continuation on page three that includes several quotes from Harry Potter about his late professor and dearly departed friend, accompanied by a photo of the man himself looking capable and confident in his Auror robes despite his stupid glasses and ridiculous hair. Because of course there is. Of course the paper wouldn’t miss the chance to print a photo of the great Harry Potter, and of course Potter would think that Lupin was “ _the greatest Defence professor Hogwarts has ever known_ ” with no mention of—

Draco’s breath catches, and he scoops the paper off the floor and shakes it open, stares down at the photo of Potter. Potter, who’s always befriended all sorts of lost causes and taken on seemingly-insurmountable challenges. Potter, who thought Draco was worth saving once, and who might think he’s worth saving again. It’s a longshot, but Draco hasn’t got any other options.

He’s downstairs again and through the Floo before he can think about it too hard, because if this new plan of his has time to sink in, he knows he’ll talk himself out of it. He steps out into the bustling Atrium of the Ministry, takes the lifts down to Level Two, and heads down the hall to Auror Offices.

There’s two witches and a wizard manning the front desk, and thank Merlin for small mercies, because Draco’s not certain he wouldn’t have lost his nerve if there’d been a queue. He steps up to the nearest receptionist.

“How may I help you?” asks the witch, looking up at him.

“I…” Draco glances behind her, over the broad room divided into cubicles. “Is Harry Potter in today? There is a matter of some importance I need to discuss with him.”

“Hm,” says the witch, consulting a large book which, from what Draco can gather reading upside-down, is a detailed schedule of who’s on-duty. “I believe he is. Is this regarding an active case?” She looks up at him again, expectant.

“Ah, no,” Draco admits. “But it’s, I can assure you it’s quite important. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Very well, then,” she says. “If you’ll just give me your name I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Draco tells her, and she motions to a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs in the corner, along with a small table and a stack of battered magazines, and invites him to wait there. Draco goes over and settles on the chair closest to the desk while the reception witch disappears off into the labyrinth of cubicles. The seat is every bit as uncomfortable as it looks, the seat cushion lumpy, and if Draco’s posture were worse, he bets that the wooden slats comprising the back of the chair would dig painfully into his spine. He allows himself to slouch, curious, and oh yes, he was right. It’s quite horrible. He straightens up again and looks around idly as he waits.

The other two receptionists are busy, the second witch has been arguing with the same wizard for the entire time Draco’s been here, and the wizard has been scribbling furious notes into an oversized book. Two Aurors linger by a nearby cubicle, talking to someone inside. An interdepartmental memo swoops by overhead, and from somewhere far off, Draco hears a burst of obnoxious braying laughter. Draco laces his fingers together over his knees and waits until the reception witch returns.

She nods at him. “Auror Potter will see you now.” She taps her wand to the thick pad of blank memos, and the top one tears itself off and folds up into an aeroplane, and she taps it with her wand again. “Go on and follow that back.”

Draco stands and thanks her, then follows the memo as it zips along and comes to a stop before a cubicle. Draco takes a moment to smooth down the front of his robes, then steps into the doorway.

Potter’s cubicle is small and cramped, most of the space taken up by a large wooden desk, the top of which is cluttered with stacks of parchment and quills and bottles of ink. Four empty coffee mugs cluster at one corner of it, one with a few inches of black coffee still in the bottom, all of them with dark rings on the insides. A rickety bookshelf in one corner looks in danger of collapsing beneath the weight of thick leatherbound books and bulging file folders and messy stacks of loose parchment, and there’s a large cork board hung up on the wall, every inch of it covered with pictures, mostly group photos with Potter smiling broadly from the middle of each one. A lamp in the corner bathes the cubicle in warm yellow light, offsetting the harshly institutional lighting of the Ministry.

“Malfoy,” Potter says. He doesn’t stand from where he sits behind his desk, nor does he offer his hand. “What brings you in to see me?” He sounds polite if a bit distant, and it comforts Draco, that touch of professionalism. They’ll both be very calm and professional about this, and it’ll be fine.

“Yes, I was hoping to discuss a, ah,” he clears his throat and glances around as someone nearby laughs loudly, that same boisterous donkey sound from earlier. “Well, it’s a matter of some delicacy. Listen, is there anywhere we could go to speak privately?”

Potter lifts his wand and loops it casually. A Privacy Charm pops into place around the cubicle. “There we are,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. “That should do it.”

Draco takes a deep breath. Potter’s watching him expectantly, and how on earth is Draco supposed to explain this? Merlin, this was a bad idea. At the very least, he ought to have planned out in advance what he wanted to say. Worked how to impart all the necessary information in the way that least makes him sound like a raving lunatic. He’s uncomfortably aware of just how fantastical it all sounds.

After a few long moments, he settles on, “I have been cursed,” as the best way to begin.

There. That didn’t sound mad at all. That sounded perfectly reasonable, albeit slightly paranoid, but Draco knows he’s not. He’s got proof that it’s all regrettably real.

“Is there a reason you didn’t report this through the usual channels?” Potter asks, but he’s inking up a quill and rummaging through a desk drawer for a fresh sheet of parchment.

“As I said,” Draco tells him, feeling a little more confident. “It’s a matter of some delicacy. I was hoping you might help me with this… discreetly.”

“There isn’t a lot I can help you with off the books,” Potter says, scratching down a few notes. “There’s quite a bit that I’d have to go through official channels for in order to be of any assistance. But why don’t you give me some more details and we’ll work out how best to handle it from there, yeah? So. How do you know you’ve been cursed?”

“Because I’ve been transforming,” Draco says. Even though he knows the Privacy Spell is still active around them, he still checks over his shoulder as an Auror hurries past the cubicle, and can’t help but lower his voice as he goes on, “Twice now, on the full moon.”

Potter’s quill slows and he peers up at Draco. “On the full moon?” he asks.

“I’m not a werewolf,” Draco says, seeing exactly where this is going. Potter looks at him dubiously, and Draco snaps at him, “I’m _not_.”

“Malfoy, look,” Potter says. The quill drips a blot of ink onto the parchment. “I understand that this has got to be scary for you, and I can see why you’d be tempted to come to me for help given my very public stance in favour of werewolf equality. But as the law stands, you’ve got to go down to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and get yourself Registered with them.” He leans forward, his eyes very green and very earnest as he says, “I’m very sorry this has happened to you, truly I am. But—”

“I told you, I’m not a werewolf,” Draco cuts him off. His heart is pounding, his body flushing hot and cold at the same time. A clammy sweat breaks out across his sternum and under his arms. Registration involves an extensive interview under Veritaserum, and they’ll lock him up in an instant if they find out how he’s woken up twice now covered in blood that’s not his own. They won’t even wait to hear the details, they’ll take one look at his surname and assume the worst. “I’m not. I don’t turn into a wolf. I grow wings.” 

“Wings,” Potter repeats, then sceptically adds, “On a full moon.”

“Yes,” Draco says stiffly, suddenly and painfully aware just how absurd it sounds.

Potter peers up at him dubiously. “What, like a were-bird?”

Draco grits his teeth, because it sounds bloody ridiculous put like that, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. “I don’t know.”

“Malfoy,” Potter says, laying his quill down. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m sure I haven’t got time for it.”

And Draco’s not prepared for the way his stomach sinks down to his toes. Potter doesn’t believe him. He’d tried to prepare himself for Potter refusing to help; but Potter flat-out refusing to believe Draco’s telling the truth is something he didn’t even consider.

“Potter,” Draco says, desperate. Potter has to believe him; Draco hasn’t got anywhere else to go. “Please.”

That seems to bring Potter up short. He glances at Draco, frowning a little, brows drawing together, and Draco pushes on.

“ _Please_ ,” he says again. “You know that given our history, I wouldn’t come to you unless I were truly desperate. I’ve exhausted every other option.” He swallows, and lays it all out. “There’s blood. I wake up, and I’m covered in someone else’s blood.” 

There’s a long few seconds of silence.

Then Draco inhales, draws himself up, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders. His underarms still feel uncomfortably damp, and he angles his elbows a little bit away from his body, and hopes that it doesn’t show through his robes. “So you can see why I’m reluctant to go through the usual channels.”

“I’m beginning to,” Potter says, picking up his quill again and absentmindedly blotting at the drip of ink with the pad of his thumb. “Where did the blood come from?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happens, or where I go. When I wake up after transforming, it’s on the third day after the full moon, and I have no memory of what’s happened in the interim.”

“No memory?” Potter echoes. “Werewolves retain their memory of what’s happened during a transformation.”

“And I’ve told you,” Draco says. “I’m not a werewolf.”

“Right. You grow wings,” Potter says, and he sounds sceptical again.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Draco insists. For a moment he wishes he’d brought the photographs, then thinks of himself naked and screaming, blood running down his back and smeared over his hands, crying and screaming and convulsing and _screaming_. The thought of someone else seeing that turns his stomach, makes it feel like he can’t breathe.

“You are aware that there’s no creature that matches what you’re telling me,” Potter tells him carefully.

“So, what,” Draco snaps at him. “Do you think I’m making it up? That I hallucinated the whole thing?” His heart is pounding, and his hands curl into fists at his side, nails biting into his palms.

“No,” Potter says quickly. “No, I’m saying that I don’t know why you came to me with this. I know a fair amount about creatures because of my involvement with P.A.W.S. but I’m not an expert. And if you’re transforming because of a curse, I’m going to be even less help.”

“I don’t have anyone else,” Draco says quietly, letting his desperation leak into his tone. The back corner of his brain is screaming at him for allowing Potter to see how vulnerable he is, but Draco wrestles it back down. Showing Potter his vulnerability is likely his best chance at convincing Potter to help him. As far as Draco knows, the Saviour’s never been able to resist a lost cause. “There’s no-one else I can trust with this. I don’t know what else to do.”

Please, Draco thinks, waiting for Potter to speak. If Potter doesn’t agree, Draco has one last plan. Potter owes Narcissa a Life Debt. It’s a complicated process to claim a Life Debt on behalf of another family member, but it can be done. Draco doesn’t want to force Potter like that, but if that’s the only choice left to him, so be it.

Then Potter sighs and rubs his forehead, and even before he speaks, Draco goes lightheaded with a sudden rush of relief. Because he can see resignation in the sudden slouch of Potter’s shoulders. He’s going to do this. He’s going to help Draco.

“I must be mad,” Potter mutters to himself, then says to Draco, “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll look into it. Hermione might have some ideas about—”

“No,” Draco cuts in. “No, you can’t tell her. You can’t tell _anyone_.”

“Malfoy—”

“ _No_. You can’t.”

“Well, then what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know!” Draco snarls. “Merlin, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

Potter sighs. “Okay, look. You say that you transform and then you go flying off to god-knows-where, right? I think the first step to figuring this out is to keep you from leaving.” He scribbles something down on a corner of the parchment, tears it off and hands it to Draco. “Here. That’s me. Come over on the next full moon, when is it?”

Draco looks down at the slip of parchment. It’s an address, and Potter’s handwriting is _appalling_. “Next Tuesday.”

“Come over next Tuesday and I’ll keep you from going off anywhere, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Potter says. “Sound okay?”

Draco nods. “I will. I… thank you.”

Potter gives him a wry smile. “Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t done anything.”

“But you will,” Draco tells him. Harry Potter has always succeeded, no matter how hopeless the situation or how enormous the challenge.

Potter’s smile edges toward something genuine. “Well, I’ll certainly try my best.”

And Draco believes him. With everything he’s got, he believes him.

* * * * *

Potter may have agreed to help, but Draco has no intention of relying entirely upon him. He continues to do his own research, continues to test himself, his blood and his magic. He’d saved part of the two feathers while he’d decided which tests to perform on them. He picks three he thinks most likely to yield results, and then carefully divides the last section of the feather into three pieces, brews potions with two of them and dissolves the last piece in a third. The results still stubbornly insist the sample has come from a human. All the tests performed on his blood and his magic still insist that there’s nothing wrong with him.

And Draco is so, so tired. He’s so exhausted he can barely function. The shop is still running smoothly thanks to Zelda, and Draco’s been able to force himself to keep up with the brewing, and it’s been almost more than he can handle. He’s having nightmares every night, and they’re getting worse. He doesn’t remember them being this bad last month, but in the week before the next full moon, he’s started waking in the middle of the night, and sometimes he can’t fall back asleep. Yesterday morning, there was a crow at his window. When he drew the curtains, it went up to the skylight, its clawed feet clicking against the glass as it shifted from one end to the other, watching Draco with shiny black eyes as he moved about his flat, getting ready to start his day.

By Monday, he’s given up. He’s accepted that there’s nothing he can do before tomorrow night to stop this from happening again. He’s going to transform again. He gets out of bed just long enough to drag himself over to the Floo and call the Manor. He asks a house-elf to tell his parents he’s fallen ill, it’s nothing serious, don’t worry, but he won’t be over today.

Then he collapses back into his bed and falls into a fitful sleep until he dreams of crossing a broad plaza, every inch of it crowded with pigeons. He places his bare feet carefully, and the small grey bodies shift away just far enough to avoid being stepped upon. They swarm around his ankles in a thronging mass, feathers tickling, their small scaly feet skittering over his own, cooing and ruffling their wings and bobbing their heads. They watch him with beady black eyes. He step, step, steps, until he puts his foot down carelessly and one doesn’t move out of the way. He feels soft smooth warm feathers against the sole of his foot, and then the crackle-snapping of fragile bird bones splintering like dry twigs, the warm rush of blood and wet compression of organs rupturing, and he wakes to the insistent peck-peck-peck of a tiny beak against his windowpane.

Draco screams and lashes out, slaps a hand against the window, hears the sudden flapping of a bird taking flight from behind the drawn curtains, then flings himself over onto his stomach, smashes his face into his pillow and screams again until the impotent anger writhing through him ebbs. It leaves him all at once, one moment he’s wrestling down the need to hit something, and the next it’s gone, leaving him empty and wrung-out. He goes limp against the mattress, face still pressed into the pillow, and he just breathes until he drifts off again.

* * * * *

Draco presses the doorbell and hears it chime, muffled, echoing back from inside the house. He takes half a step back and tucks his hands behind him. Long seconds drag by, and nothing. Should he press it again? No, it’s too soon, he doesn’t want to press it twice and appear impatient or overeager. But what if Potter didn’t hear it? Maybe he should press it again. He lifts his hand, drops his hand down again. It rang, didn’t it? He’s sure he heard it ring. Almost sure. He’s almost sure he didn’t imagine hearing it. Where on earth is Potter? Draco deliberately left it nearly til the last minute because he didn’t want to be trapped making awkward smalltalk with Potter whilst waiting to make his ghastly transformation, and what will Potter’s neighbours think if Draco does it right here on the doorstep? He should ring the bell again.

But before he can, he hears the muffled thump of footsteps approach, then the lock clatter-clacks and Potter pulls the door open. Approaching Potter at the Ministry, in an official setting with Potter dressed in the somber blue-grey of his Auror robes was one thing.

But approaching Potter in his home, dressed in tatty jeans and a faded jumper, messy-haired and with one toe poking through a hole in his sock, well. This is entirely another. This is a side of Potter that Draco doesn’t know, that he doesn’t feel he has any right to know, given their history. He missed out on that chance many years ago, the possibility of any sort of closeness with Potter slipping through his fingers that day on the train before he even had any idea what he was losing, and Draco’s surprised by the surge of covetous resentment that twists through him. He’d thought he’d put all that nonsense behind him. Things happened as they had happened, and it’s far too late to change any of it.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Potter says, stepping back and pulling the door all the way open. “Come on in.”

Draco swipes his feet firmly on the doormat before entering and shuffling aside so Potter can close the door after him.

“So, er,” Potter says, flipping the deadbolt on the door. “I was thinking down in the cellar might be best? Only one door and no windows. I’ve already gone ahead and warded it.” He shrugs a little. “Not the most comfortable, I’m afraid, but it seemed the best choice.”

“That’s fine,” Draco says, rolling his shoulders. The aching in his back is growing sharper. Merlin, he’d cut this far too close. “Can we go down there now?”

Potter blinks at him, nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Oh. Is it happening?”

“Soon,” Draco says. “I’d feel better if we were down there.”

“Right,” says Potter, turning away. “This way.”

He leads the way down the hall and opens up a narrow little door under the flight of stairs leading up to the next storey. A steep set of wooden stairs slants down into darkness. Potter lights the room with a wave of his wand, and Draco follows him down.

When Potter said that he’d be keeping Draco in the cellar, Draco had pictured something along the lines of the dungeons at the Manor. Something stark and grim, bare stone walls and a hard floor, chilly and damp. Instead, it’s almost cosy down here. It’s got a cement floor and plain stone walls, yes, but Potter’s put a plush green rug over the floor, and put a bed against one wall, heaped with warm knitted blankets, and a couple of lamps are lit, chasing the shadows back with a cheery glow. There’s some junk in the room—an old desk, Potter’s old school trunk, about a dozen cardboard boxes—but all that’s been piled up against the far wall to make space.

“Sorry,” Potter says, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck. “I know it’s not much…”

“It’s more than you had to do,” Draco says. This won’t be a bad place to spend a few days, especially when he takes into consideration the fact that he won’t remember any of it. The ache in his back is becoming an insistent throb, growing increasingly difficult to ignore. He fingers the buttons of his robes. “It won’t be long now. I’m going to undress so I don’t ruin my clothes.”

“Sure,” Potter says. “I can hang them up for you, if you’d like?”

“Thank you,” Draco says, then pushes aside the twinge of embarrassment he feels at the thought of disrobing in front of Potter. Seven years of boarding school dormitories and communal Quidditch showers have left Draco with absolutely no excuse for shyness.

He unbuttons his robes and slips them from his shoulders. He deliberately selected a set of robes with long slits up the side from hem to hips, a style which requires a set of close-fitting trousers worn beneath, which he very much intends to keep on. He folds up the robes and sets them aside, then starts on his shirt. Draco’s fingers shake as he slips the buttons from their buttonholes one by one. He shrugs his shoulders, letting the shirt slide down his arms, right cuff catching on the Portkey tied around his wrist, then begins to fold it up.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, stepping forward and holding him in place with one hand on his shoulder before Draco can react. His fingers, warm and dry, trace a careful line up the very centre of Draco’s spine parallel to where the gashes on his back have healed into thick keloid scars, shiny-pink and vivid despite all the potions and salves Draco’s rubbed into them. Last time the wounds healed cleanly, but this time they haven’t, and that’s worrisome.

“I told you,” he says helplessly, shrugging away from Potter’s hands. “I’ve been growing wings.”

“I know, but…” Potter’s staring at him oddly.

“What, you—” _didn’t believe me?_ Draco means to say, but a sudden throb of pain through his back punches the breath from him. “It’s beginning,” he manages, gritting his teeth against the next wave of agony.

“What can I do?” Potter asks, alarmed. “Malfoy, what should I do?”

“I—” Draco grits out. His back itches, sharp and painful, and the urge to scratch at it is overwhelming. He hunches forward, and something in his back pops. He can’t, he can’t—He twists one arm up over his shoulder and claws at his skin, feels it tear open, something bristly poking up through the wound.

“Malfoy!” he hears Potter say from very far away.

Draco screams, and then there’s Potter right in front of him, eyes wide, reaching out. Draco staggers to the side, shoving him away, screams again, and—

* * * * *

—wakes up in a forest. A different one, this time. There’s bare dirt beneath him, so cold it feels damp against his bare skin. His trousers are gone. Groaning, he pushes himself up and doesn’t even try to fight the wave of nausea that roils through him, just lets it come and gets it over with.

When he’s finished sicking up, he rolls onto his side away from it—just stomach bile, this time—and curls in on himself. His whole body is a mass of pain, worse than the first two times put together. There’s a large gash across his ribs, and another smaller one over his opposite hip, and most of the blood on him this time appears to be his own. Every last inch of him is sore and aching, muscles screaming in protest every time he moves.

The very last thing he remembers is Potter’s terrified face, his hands outstretched as he reaches for Draco. Potter was supposed to keep him inside, keep him safe. They had a plan. So how did Draco end up here? What if he hurt Potter in his escape?

Merlin, what if he’d _killed_ Potter?

No. Draco refuses to even think it. If dragons and a basilisk and the Dark Lord himself couldn’t manage it, then Draco certainly hasn’t. There must be some other explanation for why Potter allowed him to escape. Draco fumbles with the Portkey, stripping off the protective cloth covering, and activates it.

He lands heavily on the floor of his flat a moment later, and has to lie there for a while before he can bring himself to move.

When he finally does, he downs a strong pain potion and drags himself into the bathroom, turns on the shower and slouches against the tub. The cast iron is cold at his back, but it feels good against his aches and wounds. He cleans and closes up both of the large wounds on his ribs and hip, discovers a smaller one on his calf and takes care of that too, then gets himself into the shower where he’s horrified to discover what’s under all the blood.

Raw red scrapes and livid bruising cover nearly every inch of him, and Draco’s glad he took the stronger potion. The hot water would sting like hell on his abraded skin. He lets the steaming water soak off the worst of the blood, and he tries to be gentle as he cleans off the rest, but there’s only so much he can do. He ends up hurting himself, and he makes some of the worst scrapes bleed before he’s clean. When he’s done as well as he can, he turns off the water, collects four feathers from the drain, and clambers out of the tub.

Draco nearly cries when he gets a look at himself in the mirror. His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch gentle fingertips to a raw patch over his eyebrow, following the abrasion down over his temple to his cheekbone. He turns his hand over, taking in split knuckles. His pinky finger looks like it’s broken.

He’ll have to go to St Mungo’s for that one, he hasn’t got any Skele-Gro here. But a broken finger is easy enough to explain away, as long as he can get the rest of himself healed up. He immobilises it with a spell, then drops a towel onto the floor and sinks down atop it, Summons over jars of Healing Salve, and sets to work.

* * * * *

Draco had hoped to put in appearance at the shop this afternoon, but when he finally finishes tending to himself, he has just enough energy left to stumble over to his bed and collapse into it, roll over to get the blankets pulled over him, and pass out. He’d told Zelda he wouldn’t be back until the following day, in any case. His last thought is of Potter. He ought to check on him, make sure he isn’t hurt. But his bed is so soft and he’s so tired. He’ll just rest his eyes for a moment before he gets up and sends an owl. Just for a moment.

He wakes up early the following morning feeling tired, but in far less pain. His skin has almost fully healed, and the slight bruising that’s left is easily covered by a light Glamour. He rushes through breakfast, and leaves a note for Zelda on the front counter that he’s stepped out for a bit. Then he takes the Floo to St Mungo’s where Draco’s seen to by a Mediwitch who gives him a small dose of Skele-Gro to help the bone heal, then sets his pinky and splints it to his ring finger with a strong Sticking Charm. She gives him strict instructions to not remove the spell for a full 48 hours, and a second dose of Skele-Gro he’s supposed to take in twelve hours.

Zelda is counting the till when he returns. She looks up when he walks in, and it makes something warm and fluttery and a little wistful thrum through his chest at how she immediately brightens when she sees him. She’s genuinely glad to see him, and Draco smiles back.

“Good morning,” he says as he let the door fall shut after himself.

“Good morning,” she echoes, coins clinking as she keeps counting. “Did you have a nice trip to Majorca?”

Draco wrinkles his nose and turns away to cast an _Aguamenti_ at the fanged geranium. “It rained nearly the entire time I was there,” he says. “Not that it mattered as I was indoors most of the time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Zelda tells him. “You go all the way down there, and our dreary weather follows you. I know you said you’d be spending most of the time busy with that conference, but I was hoping you’d have a bit of time to do touristy things. Visit the beach or something.”

He shrugs, then changes the subject. “How were things here while I was gone?”

“Fine,” Zelda says, finishing up with the Sickles. She jots down a number, then collects the neat stacks of seventeen one by one and puts them back in the drawer. “Although, Harry Potter’s been in a few times looking for you, that was a bit odd. I told him you weren’t going to be back until today but he didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.”

“No, he usually doesn’t,” Draco says. Fuck, he’d forgotten entirely about Potter this morning in his rush to be seen to at St Mungo’s and get back before the shop opened. “Did he say how I should contact him?” Given what Potter had seen, Draco doesn’t think this is a conversation he’d like to have down at the Ministry, but he doesn’t want to turn up at Potter’s house unexpected and unannounced.

“He said—” Zelda begins, and is cut off by a sharp rapping at the door. Draco looks across the room to see Potter with his hands cupped to the glass, peering inside. Zelda sighs and gestures at him. “—he’d be here first thing this morning.”

Draco hurries across the shop, unlocks the door, and yanks it open. “You’d best come inside,” he says, stepping out of the way.

Potter looks distressed, wide-eyed and a little rumpled as if he’d rushed straight here this morning, and Draco feels guilty for not owling him yesterday. “Malfoy, thank god, I—”

Draco clears his throat loudly, giving Potter a quelling look. “Potter, you’ve met Zelda? Zelda, this is Harry Potter.”

“We’re acquainted,” Zelda says a bit dryly without looking up from where she’s counting out Knuts, and Potter looks sheepish.

“Come along,” Draco says before Potter has a chance to say anything else. “We can speak back here.”

He leads the way into his back room with Potter following close on his heels, hesitates for a moment, then climbs the stairs up to his flat. He doesn’t want Zelda interrupting him, and while she might be in and out of the back room, she’d never come upstairs to his flat unless there was an absolute emergency.

Potter doesn’t so much as glance around at it; he’s entirely focused on Draco. “Malfoy,” he says, and then spreads his hands helplessly like he’s got no idea what to do next.

“Potter,” Draco says, looking him up and down. He doesn’t seem to be injured, to Draco’s relief. “You’re all right?”

Potter blinks at him. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I woke up and I wasn’t in your cellar,” Draco tells him. “I was afraid I might have hurt you when I… well, I suppose I escaped?”

“I let you out,” Potter says. “I’m sorry, I know I said I’d keep you inside, but I had to.” He shoves his fingers through his hair.

Draco wrestles down his disappointment and the ridiculous feeling of betrayal. Potter said he’d keep him safe. He hadn’t done that. “Why?” he asks after a moment.

“I had to,” Potter says again. “After you… well, transformed, it was like you’d gone mad. You kept slamming yourself against the walls and ceiling, and none of my spells worked on you. I was afraid you’d kill yourself if you kept on.”

Well. That certainly explains all the bruising Draco woke up with.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Potter says helplessly. “So I let you out. I tried to put a Tracking Charm on you, but that didn’t work either. The magic just sort of… fizzled.”

“Oh,” says Draco.

“I tried to follow you,” Potter goes on. “On my broomstick. But the minute I got up in the air, you tried to attack me and I... I let you go. I had to let you go.” 

A few moments slip by in silence. Then Potter takes a deep breath.

“That,” Potter says, “was one of the most fucked-up things I’ve seen in my life.” He meets Draco’s eyes and very seriously adds, “And I have seen some shit.”

Draco can’t help but laugh, soft and helpless. “Well. You certainly know how to kick a bloke when he’s down, don’t you?”

“I’m not—Look,” Potter says. “I’m trying to tell you that I think you were right to not go to the Ministry. There’s a lot of anti-creature sentiment going around, and even though it’s mostly aimed at werewolves—which, you were right, you’re definitely, _definitely_ not a werewolf—you’ll probably get caught up in it anyhow. I’ve heard rumours that Howell’s been looking to counter some of the criticisms he’s had that he’s unfairly targeting half-bloods and muggleborns by looking for a pureblood to make an example out of.”

Howell is one of the more outspoken wizards campaigning for stricter regulations for werewolves, and, as the current Head of the Beast Division in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, is in the perfect position to bring about the changes he wants to see in how werewolves are handled by the Ministry. Condemning Draco would be the perfect feather in his political cap; not only would he dispel the criticisms about him targeting half-bloods and muggleborns, but the Malfoy name still bears some amount of tarnish due to Lucius’ involvement with the Death Eaters. There are a number of people who’d be happy enough to see Draco punished more for his surname than out of concern for whatever creature he becomes on the full moon.

“So I’m going to help you,” Potter says, eyes steady and voice filled with a steely sort of determination that makes Draco think that with Saint Potter on his side, they’ll really figure out what’s going on and how to stop it. He’s feeling very reassured and very grateful, and is caught entirely off-guard when Potter continues, “But, I’ve been thinking, we’re going to need a cover story to explain why we’re spending so much time together all of a sudden. How do you feel about pretending to be my boyfriend?”

Draco stares at him, but Potter’s face doesn’t change expression. There’s no indication that he’s joking.

“You’re mad,” he says at last. Because he is. Perhaps Draco had injured Potter when he transformed several night ago. Perhaps Potter had fallen over and hit his head, and that’s why he thinks that _this_ is the best way to help Draco.

“It makes perfect sense,” Potter insists.

“It’s _mad_. It’s utterly mad and it’ll never work. No-one’s ever going to believe—And why on earth do we need to be in a relationship—”

“It’s not mad!” Potter breaks in. “Look, we need an excuse to spend a lot of time together, yeah? Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to tell people I’m trying to help you break a curse?”

“No,” Draco says. “But can’t we tell them something else? I’m consulting on one of your cases, perhaps?”

Potter shakes his head. “Ron’s an Auror, too. He knows what cases I’m working, and if I make up a fake case he’ll be even more suspicious.”

“Well, can’t we pretend to be friends?” Draco says plaintively. 

“No-one’ll believe we’re friends,” Potter scoffs.

“Yet you think they’ll believe we’re dating?”

Potter shrugs. “Well, yeah. Friendships take time to build up, but relationships can start fast. And, you know, fine line between love and hate and all that? Plus, everyone knows how I like to keep my private life private.” He shrugs again. “Doesn’t get more private than the bloke I’m supposedly shagging, does it? They won’t ask too many questions.”

“Won’t ask too many questions,” Draco echoes, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re telling me Granger and Weasley won’t ask too many questions. _Granger_ and _Weasley_ , who have _maybe_ an ounce of tact between the two of them, and that’s an incredibly generous estimate.”

“I’ll handle them,” Potter says. “I still think it’d be easier if you’d let me tell them—”

“No.”

Potter flings his hands up. “Then this is the best excuse I can come up with for me to be able to spend lots of time around you. Take it or leave it.”

Draco rubs at his temples, because there’s no way this isn’t going to end in tears. “Fine. Fine, I must be mad, but fine. If you truly feel this is best.”

“Great,” Potter says. “What are you doing tomorrow? I’ve contacted an estate agent to look at some houses that might suit us—”

“Wait, wait,” Draco breaks in, because he feels as though he’s just lost the plot again. “Houses? Why on earth do we need to look at houses?”

“Because we need to live together,” Potter says, and Draco’s face must betray his incredulity, because Potter rushes on, “I know, I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself. But I’ve thought about this a lot, and it’ll look suspicious if you move to a Muggle neighbourhood on your own, but if I’m there too, we can say it was my idea—”

“But—”

“—and this way we won’t have to keep setting aside times and organising meetings to see each other, and if there are any outside symptoms of your curse, then it might be helpful to have someone around watching for them, and—”

“—a Muggle neighbourhood?” Draco raises his voice, talking over Potter. “There’s absolutely no reason I should move to a Muggle neighbourhood, Potter, and I won’t do it!”

“Malfoy,” Potter says firmly. “You turn into a were-bird every month and go soaring off into the night. It’s not exactly subtle and I have no idea how no-one’s noticed it happening so far.”

“What, so you’d like me to go terrorise Muggles instead?”

“With Muggles, we can cast Deflection Charms around the property when it’s the full moon and none of them will be any the wiser,” Potter says reasonably, and his calm and sensible tone makes Draco want to hit him. “Cast that sort of spell in a magical area and everyone’s going to know you’ve got something to hide. So the first thing we need to do to keep your condition a secret is to get you away from anyone who might recognise that something’s wrong. I’d also like you to keep away from your shop, but—”

“I’m not leaving my shop,” Draco snaps.

“—I had a feeling you wouldn’t agree to that,” Potter finishes, rolling his eyes. “Zelda told me that you spend most of your time in your potions lab, in any case, so we can work with this. Just try to minimise your interactions with other witches and wizards as much as possible.”

Draco glowers at Potter. “Are you always so bloody bossy?”

Potter sighs. “I’m an Auror, Malfoy. You wanted my help, didn’t you? Well I’m helping the best way I know how.”

Draco closes his eyes for a moment and rubs his temples again where he can feel a headache coming on. Tea. He needs tea if they’re going to continue this conversation. He turns and goes over to his kitchenette and puts the kettle on. “Fine. Let me know how much Muggle houses cost and I’ll have the Galleons for it exchanged.” He flaps one hand at the kitchen table. “Have a seat. Tea?”

“Yes please,” Potter says, obediently taking a seat. “So, I suppose we should work out the details of our relationship?”

“All right,” Draco says, getting down a couple of teacups and saucers, placing them on the kitchen counter. “We kept our relationship a sordid little secret because we wanted to make certain it was going well before we opened ourselves up to outside scrutiny and criticism.” Which, Merlin, they were about to get a load of. Just the thought of it makes Draco want to cancel his subscription to the _Prophet_ for the foreseeable future. He reaches back up into the cupboard for the teapot. “How did we get together?”

“Well, obviously it started with hate-fucking,” Potter says matter-of-factly, and Draco nearly drops the teapot.

“ _What_.”

Potter’s looking at him oddly. “Well, what would you call it?”

“I wouldn’t call it anything because that’s not something I would ever do,” Draco says stiffly, setting the teapot down onto the counter with a bit more force than necessary, making the lid rattle. Draco takes it off and puts it down gently beside the teapot. “Can’t we say we, I don’t know, crossed paths in a coffeeshop or a bookstore or something? We started talking, realised we wanted to get to know each other better and things happened from there?” That’s simple enough, isn’t it? That sounds plausible.

“In another universe, maybe,” Potter says, rolling his eyes. “Malfoy, everyone knows we don’t get along. We’re not going to have some cute getting-together story.”

“Fine,” Draco says. He gets out the tea. “But that doesn’t mean we have to. That.” He flaps a hand vaguely.

“It makes the most sense,” Potter says, and begins ticking off on his fingers, “Sudden beginning, explains how we got so serious so quickly, explains why we’d keep it a secret at first, most people are going to be incredibly disinclined to ask for details… It’s perfect.”

Draco glares over his shoulder as the kettle begins to whistle. He snatches it off the hob, taps his wand to the teapot to warm it. “Well I am not telling my parents that I _hate-fucked_ you.”

“Ooh, shit,” Potter says, slouching back in his chair. “I didn’t even think of your parents. How are you going to explain that you’re dating me?”

“I’ll tell them I’m dating you,” Draco says, pouring hot water into the teapot. “I mean, they’re almost certainly going to question my abysmal taste, but—”

“No, no,” Potter breaks in. “I mean, how are you going to explain that you’re dating a man?”

Draco stares at him. “They won’t question it. My parents know I’m gay.”

“Oh.” Potter blinks at him. “Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have assumed. Well, I’m bi. Or pan, or something, I haven’t quite worked out the particulars, but I like both.” He frowns. “Is that going to make this weird? That we both like men?”

Draco sighs. “At this point, I can’t think of anything that’d make it _not_ weird. And in any case, just because we both like men hasn’t got anything to do with how we feel about each other.” He brings over the teapot, then the two cups and saucers, setting one in front of Potter. “Do you take sugar?”

“No thanks, but I’ll take some milk?”

“I haven’t got any, sorry,” Draco says, taking his seat. Potter’s giving him an odd look again, so he offers, “I do have almond milk if you’d like, but it tends to separate in tea.”

Potter wrinkles his nose. “I’m fine, thanks.” He glances at Draco. “Are you some sort of health nut?”

“Hardly,” Draco says. “Mother is lactose intolerant. I grew up drinking almond milk. And stop looking at me like that, almond milk’s not some newfangled health thing. It’s been around for centuries.”

Potter shrugs, and blows across the top of his tea before he takes a sip. “Well, clearly we’ve got a lot to learn about each other.”

“Clearly,” Draco mutters.

They finish hashing out the initial details of their fake courtship as they drink their tea. Draco refuses to agree to the hate-fucking story, so they settle on a drunken night in a pub that ended up with them snogging. (“Not even a blowjob?” Potter asks disappointedly, and Draco glares at him, and Potter rolls his eyes and says, “Christ, Malfoy. I was _joking_.”) The snogging was enough for them to realise their _fantastic chemistry_ (Potter’s words, not Draco’s) and they continued to meet up in private to get to know each other better. Which brings them to where they are now.

“Well, that’s that sorted, then,” Potter says, standing up as Draco collects the tea things and sends them over to the sink with a swish of his wand. Another spell fills up the sink with soapy water and starts the washing up. Draco hates to leave things undone, but the teapot and cups will dry themselves and put themselves back in the cupboard when they’re clean, and that’ll have to be good enough.

“Right,” Draco says. “So, what time shall I meet you tomorrow?”

“Early,” Potter says, looking Draco up and down. “We’ll have to get you some new clothes. I’ll take you to the shops, first. Then we’re meeting up with the estate agent around noon.”

Draco grimaces. He hadn’t even considered that he’ll have to wear Muggle clothing. He thinks of the horrid sagging trousers and the circus-tent tee-shirts Potter used to wear at Hogwarts, and inwardly cringes. “Very well,” he says. “Shall we meet here?”

“Sounds good,” Potter says, then checks his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go into work for a little while today, so I’ve got to go.”

Draco nods. “I’ll walk you out.” He takes a deep breath. “And Potter? Thank you. I understand this is a tremendous imposition. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

Potter gives him a smile, small and genuine and a little shy. “You’re welcome.”

Back out in the shop, Zelda looks up from where she’s arranging a basket of dried bat wings. She frowns a little as she looks from Draco to Potter and back again. “Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Everything’s fine,” Draco says, then glances up at Potter. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You should go on and tell her,” Potter says to Draco, and for a moment, Draco has no idea what he’s on about. Potter nudges Draco with an elbow. “C’mon. We agreed we’re not going to keep it a secret any longer.”

Draco looks at Potter, startled, and Potter gives him an encouraging nod. Merlin, Draco doesn’t want to do this. He really _really_ doesn’t want to do this. But, as Potter pointed out, this is the best way for them to spend lots of time together. Potter is helping him. He doesn’t have to do that, he’s doing it out of the goodness of his little Gryffindor heart, and now Draco just needs to go along with the story they’ve set up. One way or another, this’ll be over soon enough.

“I…” Draco says, and grabs Potter’s hand. He regrets it instantly; it feels unbelievably awkward to have Potter’s fingers caught between his own, but Potter’s hand is warm and dry, and that’s sort of nice. At least he doesn’t have sweaty palms. “Well, we’re… What I mean to say is…” Wait, Does Draco have sweaty palms? Can Potter feel that Draco’s hand is sweating? Oh, he shouldn’t have grabbed Potter’s hand. He shouldn’t have. “Ah…”

“We’re moving in together,” Potter says, taking pity on Draco and his inability to string together a coherent sentence.

Zelda stares at them, poleaxed. “You’re what?”

“Moving in. Together,” says Draco. “Because we’re…”

“Dating,” Potter finishes, saving him again, at least until he adds, “And very much in love,” and Draco nearly swallows his tongue in shock. They hadn’t discussed anything about _love_. “We’ve been together for a while,” Potter goes on, prattling on over Draco’s stunned silence. “But we thought it best to keep it to ourselves for a while, given our history. But,” He lets go of Draco’s hand and Draco has time for a scant second of relief before Potter slides an arm around his waist, tugging him close, and gives him a smile, “we decided it’s going well enough that we don’t want to hide it anymore.”

Draco’s staring at Potter in a whole new light. How on earth is he this good of a liar? Draco had always assumed he’d be terrible at it. Potter nudges Draco’s ankle with his foot, and Draco looks back to Zelda.

“We’re very happy,” Draco says, smiling, and Potter gives him a little squeeze.

Zelda is staring at Draco like he’s gone completely round the twist.

“You said you had to go to work for a bit, didn’t you?” Draco says to Potter. He needs him gone. Now. He grabs Potter by the wrist and tugs him toward the door.

“You could look a little sorry to see me go,” Potter hisses in his ear. “We’re supposed to like each other and you’re practically throwing me out of your shop!”

Draco gives him a smile that he’s sure looks more like a grimace. “I’m just trying to make sure you get to work on time,” he says. “It’s because I care deeply about your punctuality. I am a very considerate boyfriend, you see.”

Potter snorts. “Well, at least you’ve got your sense of humour. That’ll make this easier.”

Draco pinches him. Potter kicks his ankle.

“Goodbye, darling!” Draco says loudly and shoves Potter out the door, and his hand twitches up toward the deadbolt before Draco remembers that it’s still mid-morning and he’s got a whole work day to get through.

Sighing, he turns around, avoids looking at Zelda, and heads for his workroom. “Well, I’ve got a few things I need to brew—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Zelda cries, snagging him by the elbow and tugging him to a stop. “You’re not off the hook that easily.”

“Really, I’ve got work to do,” he tries to protest, shaking his arm free of her.

“It’ll keep. Let’s talk about how you’re dating Harry Potter and you didn’t tell me?” Zelda scolds him.

“You’re my employee,” Draco reminds her sourly. “We’re not friends.”

“That’s a load of bollocks and you know it,” Zelda says. She folds her arms over her chest and gives him a supremely unimpressed look. “Really, you’re dating Harry Potter. And you didn’t tell me!”

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Draco says, casting a longing glance at his back room. “We explained this already. We were getting to know each other.”

The bells above the door jingle. A customer. Excellent timing. Draco look over eagerly.

And sees, to his horror, that it’s Dorothea.

“Draco!” she calls out. “Did I just see Harry Potter leave your shop?”

Zelda gives him a shove. “Go. You owe me,” she mutters, then says loudly, “Draco’s left a potion on in the back, he’s got to see to it before his cauldron explodes.”

And Draco doesn’t wait to hear any more than that. He thanks his lucky stars for Zelda, and flees into the back.


	6. Chapter 6

The shopping trip goes better than expected. The style of clothing favoured by Muggles seems to have changed in the few years since Hogwarts, to Draco’s immense relief. It makes this whole business of giving up his robes easier, being able to have Muggle clothing that fits him properly. Draco chooses several pairs of trousers in black and different shades of grey, along with some shirts in grey, black, and a very lovely forest green. He picks out several jumpers and a couple of cardigans. He buys plain white undershirts and plain black pants, and those come in crinkly plastic packs of three. (How odd Muggles are!) According to Potter, Draco’s shoes and socks will pass as Muggle, so he gets to keep those. He also buys a black peacoat, which, as far as Draco can tell, doesn’t have anything to do with the vegetable so he hasn’t got the first clue as to why it’s called that. But he likes it. It makes him look very slim and elegant in a way that voluminous cloaks emphatically don’t. Perhaps the Muggles are onto something, there.

Potter insists that he change into some of his new clothes before they meet the estate agent, and Draco does as he suggests because he’s noticed some of the odd looks he’s been getting from some of the other people in the store, even though he’d deliberately dressed in his plainest black robes. So he goes into the little fitting room and puts on a pair of black trousers and a black shirt and his light grey knit jumper, then folds up his robes and puts them in the bag with the rest of his new things. 

It feels odd to not have his robes swishing around his ankles as he walks and Draco feels strangely exposed like this, but no one stares, and Potter assures him that he looks very nice.

Draco gives him a suspicious look at that, but Potter seems as though he’s sincerely trying to be polite, so Draco thanks him and lets it go.

They meet with the estate agent, and go off to look at houses. The first one is entirely unsuitable, but they get lucky with the second one. It’s well within Draco’s price range, and will perfectly suit their purposes. It’s on a quiet little residential street. There’s a large fireplace in the living room that they should have no trouble connecting to the Floo Network, and the kitchen is spacious and airy, with ample countertops and big windows that let in lots of sunlight, and an adjoining dining room that looks out onto the back garden, which is partially shaded by a large elm tree. Draco thinks he might be able to plant the garden with some of the more mundane herbs he sells. There are already some raised beds installed along the back fence, and there’s a run-down little wooden shed in the back corner.

And all that’s very well and good, but most importantly, the house has two bedrooms upstairs.

The estate agent is delighted when they make their decision and put in an offer right away, and then there’s a flurry of paperwork which, mercifully, Potter takes the lead on. Draco signs where he’s told to sign and otherwise lets Potter handle it. It makes him a little nervous to be signing papers he hasn’t read, but he trusts that Potter knows what he’s doing, and this morning has been very stressful. Draco hasn’t got it in him to parse his way through legal paperwork right now. Besides, they’re all a bunch of Muggles. If these were wizarding documents, Draco would be scouring every last clause. But with Muggles, worst come to worst, he supposes he can just _Obliviate_ the lot of them, _Incendio_ the papers he’d signed, and that’ll be that.

“That wasn’t nearly so bad as I thought it’d be,” Draco admits to Potter later, after they’re back in Diagon Alley. He’s feeling better now that it’s all over and done with.

“Yeah,” says Potter, glancing sidelong at him. “I thought you’d be a lot harder to please.”

Draco’s good mood pops like a soap bubble “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Potter says, holding his hands up placatingly. “Nothing. It means I don’t know you nearly as well as I thought I did. That’s all.”

Draco takes a deep breath, tries to see all of this from Potter’s point of view. They’ve hardly had anything to do with each other since they were at Hogwarts together, when Draco had spent a lot of time and effort flaunting his family’s wealth and status, especially in front of Weasley. And anyhow, hadn’t Draco approached Potter on the assumption that what he knew of Potter years ago was still true? That Potter would still think even the most hopeless of lost causes was worth saving? They’re both still holding on to a lot of their old judgements, and it’s not fair for Draco to begrudge Potter his old assumptions about Draco when its Draco’s assumptions about him that had led him to ask Potter for help in the first place.

It takes some effort, but Draco lets go of his initial surge of indignation. Potter doesn’t have to help him, he reminds himself. Potter is rearranging his entire life to help Draco. He doesn’t have to do any of this.

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” Draco says. “As a thank you.”

“Oh, really, that’s not necessary,” Potter says, but he looks both surprised and pleased by the offer.

“It really is,” Draco insists. “For several reasons. One, if we’re meant to be a couple, we ought to be seen together in public at least a few times. Two, there are several things we need to discuss. And three… I really do owe you for everything you’re doing for me. Dinner is the least I can do.”

“Well, all right,” Potter says. “We really do need to talk. I’d like to get more information about your, erm. Feathery little problem.” He glances around even though there’s no-one within earshot, and lowers his voice. “I tried to do a bit of my own research based on what I saw, but I didn’t get very far with it, I’m afraid. I got a book about birds, but it wasn’t all that helpful.”

Draco nods. “Wonderful. It’s a date,” he says. And won’t this make for scintillating dinner conversation? Wine, he decides. Draco desperately needs someplace that serves decent wine. “How do you feel about French?”

“Er,” says Potter, scratching the back of his neck. “Pretty good?”

“Wonderful,” Draco says again. “I know just the place."

Le Mur Bleu will suit their needs perfectly. In addition to an extensive wine list, it also boasts a cosy and intimate atmosphere. A large part of that intimacy comes from the Privacy Charms that surround every table. Draco and Potter can discuss whatever they’d like, and all anyone else will be able to hear is the low murmur of their voices. The particulars of their conversation will be kept entirely private. 

The other reason he wants it is a bit of taking the coward’s way out. Le Mur Bleu is popular enough that he and Potter are sure to be spotted. A part of Draco is hoping that if they show up to a restaurant that’s a popular destination for couples, they’ll make the papers tomorrow, and then he won’t have to break the news to his parents. Lucius and Narcissa can have all of their unseemly reactions out of Draco’s sight—apoplexy, aneurysm, swooning and fainting dead away from the shock of it, ironing their ears and closing their fingers in a drawer, whatever-—and then when he sees them for dinner later that evening, everyone will be calm and composed about the whole mess.

Plan in place, Draco Side-Alongs Potter to the restaurant.

It’s reservations only, but Draco discovers that’s one of the advantages of fake-dating the Chosen One. All he has to do is turn up with Potter in tow, and then watch the staff practically trip over themselves to find them a table. Potter looks somewhat embarrassed about the whole affair, but Draco’s fascinated and delighted.

“I didn’t know we needed reservations,” Potter murmurs to Draco. “We can go somewhere else…”

“Hush,” Draco tells him. “Clearly we _don’t_ need reservations. And look, they’ve already got a table for us. You don’t want them to have gone to all that bother for nothing, do you?”

The maitre d’ leads them over to a table right smack in the middle of the dining room, and Potter sighs a little as he takes his seat. They’re left with menus and the wine list and a promise that their waiter will be right with them.

The menus are all in French, and Draco taps his with the tip of his wand to cast a Translation Charm over it before he settles in to look it over.

“You don’t speak French?” Potter asks as he casts his own Translation Charm.

Draco peers at him over the top of his menu. “No. Why does everyone always assume I would?”

Potter shrugs. “You just look the type, I guess.” He frowns at the wine list, brows drawing together like he’s working a complex arithmancy equation. “Also, isn’t your name French?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, all that’s ancient history. The Malfoys came to Britain in the 10th century.”

“It was just a thought,” Potter grumbles.

“A ridiculous one,” Draco tells him. “Or do you know how to speak whatever language they use in wherever it is that Potters come from?” Draco tries to look to the side without being obvious about it. “Is that couple staring at us? I feel like we’re being stared at.” Potter turns his whole head to look, and Draco tries to kick him under the table, “Merlin, don’t _look_ at them!”

“Stop that,” Potter says without looking at Draco, too busy giving the witch at the next table an expectant look. She blushes and averts her gaze. “And why shouldn’t I look? They’re being rude. And there,” He turns back to Draco. “She’s stopped staring now, hasn’t she?” He goes back to poring over the wine list. “I feel like we ought to get wine. You need wine for a romantic dinner, don’t you?”

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t had time for dating since Hogwarts.” Draco frowns at him, and glances at the table next to him where the witch is still very clearly not looking back. “Didn’t you date Ginny Weasley for a while? Didn’t you do this sort of thing with her?”

“Almost two years,” Potter says. “But there was never wine, or flowers, or any of that nonsense. On our anniversary, we snuck onto the Hogwarts pitch and spent the afternoon playing Beater’s Quidditch with a couple of practise Bludgers. Figured it’d be the fairest match, since neither of us played Beater.” He smiles a little to himself. “We were both terrible at it, but it was fun.”

It’s a casual little anecdote, delivered with no hesitation, and perhaps Potter has no trouble at all spilling personal details of his past relationships to other people. But for Draco it feels like another glimpse of a side of Potter that he’s not allowed to see, like the hole-y socks and how Potter’s still got his school trunk in his basement.

Potter continues perusing the wine list like it’s got the answer to the meaning of life, and Draco tries to push aside his discomfort at the thought of how many more of these little details he’s going to get before all of this is over. Merlin, he and Potter are going to be _living_ together. They’re going to be sharing a house and a life and Draco thinks back to Hogwarts, how he learned that Crabbe snored, and Nott had an oversized blue jumper he wore when he was feeling insecure, and Millicent sometimes had trouble sleeping and would pace the common room at all hours of the night, and it wasn’t that Draco had wanted to learn any of these things, he’d found them out simply by virtue of sharing space with his housemates.

The same thing is going to happen with Potter, and Potter will find out all those little things about Draco as well, and the thought of it is entirely unnerving.

“Give me that,” he says, tugging the wine list out of Harry’s hands. “You’re looking at it as though it’s written in cuneiform.”

“Might as well be,” Potter grumbles, and lets Draco take it without complaint. “You know wines, I’m guessing?”

“Of course I do,” Draco says, skimming over the list. 

“Pick out a good one, then,” Potter tells him and looks at his menu, and Draco huffs. As if he’d been planning to pick out a _bad_ one.

The waiter comes by their table just then and fills up their water glasses. Draco orders them a bottle of pinot noir and the boeuf bourguignon for himself, and Potter hands over his menu to the waiter with a smile and a, “Yeah, I’ll have the same, thanks,” which Draco grudgingly admits was pretty clever of him because judging by the poorly-concealed look of amusement on the waiter’s face, Draco’s fairly certain he mangled the pronunciation rather horribly.

Draco takes a sip of water and waits until their server walks away and the Privacy Charms on their table settle back into place.

“So. Why don’t you tell me more about what’s happened to you?” Potter says a split second before Draco would have brought it up himself. He rests his forearms on the edge of the table and laces his fingers together. “When you came to me, you said you’d been cursed. How do you know it’s not something like lycanthropy? You know, a condition rather than a curse.”

Because if it’s a curse, it can be undone, and Draco has to believe that there’s an end to this.

“Because I haven’t come into contact with a creature that could have done this to me,” Draco says. “And I’ve never heard of the existence of anything like what’s happened to me. Lycanthropy is passed along werewolf to werewolf. And if there are no other beings like me, then where did it come from?”

Potter’s nodding along. “Right. So, curse. I know you transform on the full moon, fly off to god knows where, and then wake up on the third day with no memory of where you’ve been. Are there any other symptoms?”

Draco tells him about it, pausing briefly when their server returns to the table with the bottle of wine, uncorks it, and pours them each a glass. Draco gladly picks up his and takes a large swallow before he continues. He tells Potter about the nightmares and tiredness that never go away and how they both begin to worsen on the new moon, and how both are more severe this month than last month. He tells Potter about the way birds have begun to behave oddly around him, how that’s been worsening as well. He describes what it feels like when he wakes up, the pain and nausea and lightheadedness. He tells Potter about the wounds he doesn’t know how he got.

Potter’s frown gets deeper and deeper as he listens, and Draco sighs.

“Smile, Potter. You’re supposed to be enjoying my company.”

The frown smooths away. “And this has happened three times so far?” Potter asks. He picks up his wine for the first time and takes a sip, then makes a face when he swallows, sucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Draco nods. “Unfortunately, yes,” he says, somewhat distracted by watching Potter take a tentative second sip of wine with much the same reaction. “Is that not to your liking?”

“Oh, no, it’s good. It’s quite good,” Potter says. “It’s just that I’m assuming this is a fair bit more expensive than the stuff I’m used to. I’m trying to taste the difference.” He shrugs and puts his glass back on the table. “It doesn’t seem different to me. It’s good, though.”

“What do you usually get?” Draco asks, almost afraid to find out.

“Well, it comes in a box…” Potter begins, and holds his serious expression for all of two seconds before he bursts out laughing. “God, the look on your face. I’m joking, Malfoy. I don’t drink boxed wine. My wine comes in proper bottles, and it’s not even the bottom shelf stuff.” He meets Draco’s eye, then says very seriously, “I pick whatever’s got the most interesting picture on the label from the second shelf up.”

Draco hesitates, unsure whether he’s supposed to laugh.

“That one was not a joke,” Potter says helpfully. “I really do pick them based on the pictures. My favourite’s the one with the little bats on it. It’s a very nice pink one.”

“The… label is pink?” Draco asks.

“The wine is pink,” says Potter. “Ron likes pink wine the best so we drink a lot of that.”

Draco stares at him. “You mean rosé.”

“See, that I’ve never understood,” Potter says. “There’s red wine and white wine, so why not just call it pink wine? Easier that way round, I think.”

And Draco hasn’t got an answer for that. There’s something in his tone that makes him suspect that Potter might be joking again, but it’s honestly kind of hard to tell.

“Right,” he says eventually. 

The witch at the table beside them is watching again, more covertly now than she was before, but still obviously watching. Draco sighs and finishes off his glass, and pours himself another one. Merlin knows he needs it.

“Hey,” Potter says softly, and Draco looks up.

“What?”

“Here,” Potter says, laying his arm halfway across the small table between them, his hand palm-up. “Give me your hand.”

Draco frowns and says again, “What?”

“C’mon, we’re supposed to be on a romantic date. Give me your hand.” Potter gives his fingers a little waggle.

Reluctantly, Draco puts his hand in Potter’s. Potter curls his fingers around Draco’s, warm and firm, and Draco hates that it’s a comfort.

“Now listen, because I think this is something you need to hear,” Potter continues, voice low and very serious. “This is going to be okay. We’re going to figure out what’s going on with you, and we’re going to fix it. It’s going to be fine.”

He says it like he truly believes it, and Draco has no idea what Potter saw on Draco’s face that made him suddenly feel the need to offer reassurances. And it’s too much, the steady way he’s staring at Draco, the warm press of his fingers to Draco’s own. The unshakable conviction that he, Harry Potter, can fix this.

Draco can’t bring himself to meet the intensity of Potter’s eyes any longer, and he swallows hard and looks down at his lap. He’s acutely aware of the image this presents: Potter leaning toward him, intense and earnest, their joined hands in plain view atop the table, and Draco looking demurely away. It’s acutely embarrassing. He can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes upon him.

“Excuse me,” he says, tugging his hand free, then stands and goes to the toilet where he takes deep breaths and runs warm water over his hands until they stop shaking. He meets his own gaze in the mirror before he goes back out to his table, and is relieved that he doesn’t look as off-balance as he feels. His cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise, he looks fine.

When he returns to the table, he finds that their dinner has arrived. Potter waits until Draco sits down again before he takes up his fork and tries a bite. He makes a small, pleased sound and his whole face lights up. It’s annoying and charming in equal measures, how little it apparently takes to please Potter, and Draco looks down at his own plate and takes up his fork. The food is good, but it’s not _that_ good. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, and then Draco takes a fortifying gulp of wine and broaches the next topic they need to discuss. “So, have you told anyone yet about…?” He gestures vaguely with his fork.

“I already told Ron and Hermione,” Potter says. “Last night.”

“Oh? And how’d they take it?”

“Eh,” Potter says, wobbling his hand in a _so-so_ gesture. “Hermione is baffled by the whole thing since it pretty much came out of nowhere, but she’s really trying to be supportive. Ron thinks I’m lying.” He spears a pearl onion and pops it into his mouth, chews quick and swallows. “What about you? Have you told anyone?”

Draco thinks it over for a moment. They told Zelda already, and Draco hasn’t spoken to his other friends in, Merlin, has it really been half a year since the last time he’d met Pansy for drinks? “No,” he says. “I’ll need to tell my parents tomorrow. That’s another thing I wanted to speak to you about. Every Monday I go to the Manor for dinner. If I’m in a serious relationship with someone…”

“...you’ll be expected to bring them along,” Potter finishes with a grimace. “Well, same goes for dinner at the Burrow. If we’re as serious as we’re saying we are, you’ll be expected to join me.”

It takes Draco a moment to place the name, then, oh. Weasleys. He hopes his face hasn’t betrayed anything, but Potter doesn’t look angry so it must not have. “Oh,” Draco says, and takes a sip of wine. “When is that?”

“Sundays,” Potter says. “I told them I’d be busy today, but we’ll be expected to go next week.” He glances around. “Especially since this is definitely going to make the papers. I’m going to have to stop by tonight and tell Molly and Arthur in person.”

Draco thinks of the Howlers that Weasley would sometimes get at breakfast in the Great Hall. They were entertaining when they were directed at Weasley; the potential of them is somewhat less entertaining when they involve him. “That’s probably for the best,” he says.

“What about you? Are you going to tell your parents?”

“Mm,” Draco hums noncommittally around a mouthful for beef and mushrooms. He swallows. “I’ll talk to them. Would you mind terribly if I went over early tomorrow, and you met me there? Say, around six o’clock?”

“Sure,” Potter says. He doesn’t quite grimace, but it’s a near thing.

Wonderful, Draco thinks sourly. Potter’s clearly looking forward to it every bit as much as Draco is. He can’t help but think of the last time Potter set foot inside Malfoy Manor.

This, he’s sure, is going to be an unmitigated disaster.

* * * * *

Draco spends all of Monday morning and most of the afternoon working on his experiments. A vague sense of guilt and panic lingers over him the entire time he spends hunched over a cauldron in his secondary lab space, but he simply can’t bring himself to dwell on his curse today. The impending horror of Potter coming over to the Manor this evening hangs over him like a stormcloud, and Draco’s nerves can only take one crisis at a time. He still hasn’t heard from his parents, but then again he hasn’t checked his letterbox, either.

He did catch a glimpse of this morning’s paper, though. They’d used the photo of Potter holding Draco’s hand, leaning across the table, every inch of him clearly focused on Draco, and Draco with his head ducked demurely away. He looks like a bloody blushing damsel, with Potter as the strong and handsome Saviour. He’d Vanished the paper, deciding that it’d be best for his blood pressure if he left the accompanying article unread. He knows it’s about as useful as hiding his head in the sand. Not reading won’t make it not exist. Him not reading it won’t stop his parents from reading it.

Draco sighs and dumps out his failed experiment, then hauls the cauldron into the sink and runs hot water into it. He leans a hip against the sink’s edge and rubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist. Last night was a mistake. Draco should have just screwed up his nerve and told his parents himself. He’d done such a good job of keeping himself out of the public eye, and now.

Oh, Merlin. Dorothea must be leaping for joy. Diagon Alley hasn’t seen a bite of gossip this juicy since Mr Hobbs accidentally Transfigured his wife into a porcupine and was unable to change her back. Draco had even left his back room and stood on his doorstep to watch that particular drama unfold.

He whistles idly to himself as he lathers up a washrag with Cauldron Soap and for a while loses himself in the soothing rhythm of scouring a cauldron perfectly clean while mulling over what had made this experiment go wrong. It’s his fourth failure of the day, and by the time he rinses the cauldron and sets it aside to dry, he has another idea he’d like to try. 

But it’s too late today. Draco checks the clock, then locks up his kosher lab space and returns to his flat to get dressed.

Half an hour later, he steps from the Floo at the Manor, and finds a house-elf waiting for him.

“Master Draco is being expected in the drawing room,” it squeaks at him.

“Brilliant,” Draco mutters. Oddly, it calms him to know what’s waiting. He’d expected his parents to ambush him over this morning’s paper, but there was still that edge of uncertainty. Would they do it right away? Would they wait and bring it up over dinner? Knowing for sure when and where it’s happening, well. Now there’s nothing to do but go face it and get it over with.

Draco walks straight to the drawing room, because if he lingers he’ll work himself up again.

There’s a fire crackling merrily away in the fireplace, and Lucius and Narcissa are sitting comfortably near it when Draco steps into the room, conversing quietly. It takes them a moment to notice Draco, and they immediately fall silent when they do.

“So,” Draco says. “I suppose you’ve seen this morning’s _Prophet_?”

Narcissa and Lucius exchange a look, and oh yes, they were definitely talking about him just now. He can only imagine what they were saying. Draco vaguely wishes he’d been able to stomach reading the article this morning, so he’d have a better idea of what to expect.

“Darling,” says Narcissa, patting the sofa cushion beside her. “Have a seat.”

Draco sits stiffly, spine perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Draco,” Lucius begins, and Narcissa cuts him off with a hurried, “I’m going to assume this is what you’d wanted to discuss with us week before last?”

It takes Draco a moment to work out what she means, because between telling Potter, and the hellish week leading up to his third transformation, and working through the aftermath, well. It’d slipped his mind entirely that he’d come here two weeks ago with the intention of admitting to his parents that he was cursed. But it fits perfectly with his story, so he nods. “I was nervous,” he says, and that’s the truth, at least. He’d been nervous, even if he’d ultimately ended up not going through with his confession.

“Draco,” Lucius says again, gentler this time, almost tired. “I meant what I told you before. Certainly Harry Potter isn’t quite what I expected, and a front page article certainly isn’t how I expected to find out about it. But this is your choice and we support it.”

“You’ll have to invite him over for dinner,” Narcissa says decisively. “If he’s an important part of your life, then we ought to all become better acquainted.”

“Wonderful,” Draco says, and is surprised by how bright he sounds. “How about this evening? Because I’ve already invited him.”

“That’s…” Lucius begins, then after a slight pause, finishes, “...wonderful. I’ll tell the house-elves to set an extra place.” He stands and strides from the room and, helpless, Draco watches him leave.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Narcissa says to Draco. “I’ll take care of this.”

She leaves the room after her husband, and Draco gives in to the urge to lay his head down on the arm of the sofa.

Unmitigated. _Disaster_.

He stays there until Narcissa returns. “Give him time,” she says, sitting down again, and he pushes himself upright. “It’s just the shock of it. The pair of you have always had a rather…” She pauses, looks up at the chandelier. “...complicated history. We had no idea you had even settled your differences.”

“It was all quite sudden,” Draco says. “And then we decided it’d be best to keep it to ourselves for a bit while it was still so new.” He swallows, looking down at his hands. “We knew that everyone would have an opinion, and most won’t hesitate to share.”

“You’re an adult. You don’t owe us any explanation for your choices. But,” She reaches out and pats the back of his hand, “you will always be my child. And all that matters to us is that you are happy.”

Draco smiles at her. He wishes, more than anything, that he could be having this conversation with her about a different man, and under very different circumstances. “Thank you,” he says. “I am. We very much are.” His mother is still smiling, and Draco can’t do this. “I’m going to go wait for him by the Floo, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Narcissa says. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed Draco’s nervousness, but from the way her smile turns small and amused, she probably thinks it’s an ordinary sort of nervousness, the wonderfully mundane anxiety of introducing a boyfriend to his parents for the first time.

He escapes the drawing room and heads back to the entrance hall. There are still ten minutes before Potter should arrive, but Draco doesn’t mind that. Confronting his parents turned out to be tremendously anticlimactic, and now he’s got this knot of anxiety tightening in the pit of his stomach because what if the worst is yet to come?

Oh, Merlin, what is he even saying? He’s putting Harry Potter and Lucius Malfoy at a table together and asking them to make nice. Of course the worst is yet to come.

Draco walks over to the window and looks out over the grounds, breathes deep and tries keep himself calm. The minutes slip by one by one, and then it’s time for Potter to arrive. Another minute goes by, then another, and another, and Draco paces. He had told Potter six o’clock, had he not? Did Potter forget? He hopes Potter didn’t forget.

Finally, the Floo flares green and Potter stumbles out in a cloud of soot. Draco Vanishes it with a whisk of his wand and steps forward.

“You’re late,” he scolds in a whisper.

Potter blinks, checks his watch, and frowns at Draco. “No I’m not. I’m right on time.”

“Yes, and thus you are _late_. A polite guest arrives five minutes early.”

Potter gives him an incredulous look. “In what universe?”

“In this one, you arse.” Draco knew it; this is going to be awful. Absolutely awful.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” Potter tells him.

“How have you never heard of that before?” Draco demands, still trying to keep his voice down. “It’s one of the most important rules of etiquette in proper wizarding culture. A guest should always arrive five minutes early. It shows respect for the host.”

“And by _proper wizarding culture_ , do you mean _pureblood_? Because if so, then there’s your problem,” Potter says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a pureblood.”

“Your friend Weasley is, isn’t he? And how many years have you lived in Wizarding society? Have you learned nothing in that time?” This isn’t going to work. His parents will never believe that Draco could spend time with someone so uncouth. Or they’ll assume that he and Potter spend all their time together in bed and the subject of good manners has never come up. Draco’s honestly not sure which is worse.

“You told me to be here at six o’clock, Malfoy,” Potter says evenly. He looks like he’s fighting off the urge to roll his eyes again. “If you wanted me here five minutes early, you should have told me to be here at 5:55. Then I’d have been _on time_.”

“You’re mocking me,” Draco tells him, glowering. “Don’t think that I can’t tell when you’re mocking me.”

“Good,” says Potter dryly. “I’d really hate it if you couldn’t tell.”

Merlin. Draco has no idea how he’d managed to forget Potter’s sass. It’s only grown more infuriating with time. “Forgive me,” Draco grits out. “Because I assumed—” He bites off the rest of his sentence. This evening will be stressful enough without getting into an argument with Potter beforehand.

Potter sighs, gusty and put-upon “You know, Malfoy, this relationship is never going to succeed if we can’t learn to communicate properly.”

“That’s not funny,” Draco tells him.

“No, really, it kind of is,” Potter says.

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Draco exhales slowly. Because, really, sometimes it’s laugh or cry, and clearly Potter’s made his choice. “I’m sure that one day it will be,” Draco allows, then, “Come along. My parents are already waiting for us.”

Potter nods, then spreads his arms a little. “Hey, do I look all right? I wasn’t sure how to dress for this…”

Draco looks over him with a critical eye. Potter’s wearing a set of fitted robes in a deep twilight blue. He’s actually dressed a bit more formally than is strictly necessary, but Draco would much prefer that he err on the side of caution. It’ll make a good impression, show his parents that Potter’s serious.

“You look quite nice,” he says. “You couldn’t do anything with your hair?”

Potter shrugs. “I work magic, not miracles. The robes are fine, though? I can go home and change.”

“Yes, your robes are fine,” Draco says, eyeing the way Potter’s hair flops over his forehead. “I suppose your hair’s fine, too. I doubt anyone would even recognise you if you changed it.” He breathes out. “Come along. We might as well get this over with.”

“Such confidence,” says Potter. “I like that in a man.”

Draco sends him a look, and Potter grins at him and waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. It surprises Draco into a laugh, and Potter’s grin widens.

“Merlin,” Draco says, shaking his head, still smiling a little. “Don’t use any of those awful lines on me in front of my father.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

Lucius and Narcissa are waiting when Draco leads Potter into the dining room. It feels a bit like acting in a play as Draco introduces Potter to his parents with a murmured, “You remember Harry…?” and they all shake hands and pretend as though they’re all glad to see one another, and Draco wonders whether he’s the only one who’s uncomfortably aware that the last time Potter visited the Manor, he’d been kidnapped and held prisoner in the dungeons.

But if they are, they’re doing an excellent job of hiding it as Potter and Lucius exchange polite, albeit somewhat strained, smiles and Lucius leads Potter to the table. They all sit, Potter echoing Draco’s movements a half-second behind, and as soon as they’re all seated, the house-elves appear to serve up the first course. Normally these Monday evening dinners with his parents are an informal affair with a three-course meal: soup, entree, and dessert. But instead of soup, Draco is served a quail egg and taramasalata amuse-bouche, so he knows they’re in for at least five courses. _At least_ five. Draco sincerely hopes when Lucius had a word with the house-elves, everything was calm. One of the more excitable kitchen elves tends to go overboard when provoked. If Tabbles has gone off again, they could be in for as many as seven, or eleven, or even _seventeen_. It only gets worse from there; Tabbles has an inexplicable affection for prime numbers.

Each halved egg is topped with a little pile of black caviar that reminds Draco uncomfortably of beetle eyes, but he eats it because caviar is delicious and beetle eyes are not. Potter copies him a moment later. He chews and makes a face like he isn’t sure whether he wants to swallow, but he forces it down with a minimum of theatrics, although he does glance suspiciously at Draco, as though this might all be some elaborate set-up to, what, force him to eat delicacies?

Narcissa clears her throat softly. “Have you had much weather in London?” she asks Potter. “We had a terrible rainstorm the other afternoon.”

“Oh, er, no,” Potter says. “Must’ve missed us. It’s been cold, but nice.”

“Yes,” Draco chimes in. “Lots of sunshine.”

“That’s nice,” Narcissa says, and looks at Lucius. “Isn’t that nice, dear?”

Lucius agrees that it is, in fact, nice. And Draco is struck by the sudden absurdity of the whole situation. Merlin. They’re talking about the bloody _weather_.

Potter’s staring down at the second half of his quail egg as if it’s issued him a personal challenge. He takes a quiet breath, pops it into his mouth and barely chews before he’s swallowing, his face a perfectly blank mask.

“So, I hear you’re an Auror?” Narcissa tries again.

“Mm,” Potter says, reaching for his water glass and taking a large sip. “Yes. I’ve just been promoted up from Junior Auror, actually.”

“Oh, how nice,” says Narcissa. Then, a bit more desperately than before. “Isn’t that nice, dear?”

Again, Lucius agrees that it is, in fact, nice.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent that no-one knows what the hell to say to each other. Turns out that fighting in a War on opposing sides leaves a lot of potential pitfalls in conversation, and everyone seems to feel that awkward silence is preferable to accidentally setting one off.

“Well,” Potter says only half a beat too late. He seems to realise that if he lets this thread of conversation drop, they’ll only have to find another one. “It certainly keeps me busy.”

“Not too busy, I hope,” Narcissa says. “There is more to life than one’s work.” She glances at Draco, and he bites back a sigh because they’ve been having this conversation pretty much from the moment he opened his shop.

“No, I’ve got hobbies outside of work. Oh, thank you,” Potter says, pausing as a house-elf clears his empty plate and replaces it with a cup of beet bisque. “Mostly I’ve been occupied with fixing up my house. I bought an older place in pretty rough shape and have been working to restore it. But I suppose I’ll have to find something else to do rather soon.” He takes up his spoon and rests it idly on the rim of his soup bowl.

“Oh?” Narcissa asks, taking up her spoon. “Have you finished restoring it?”

And Draco can see exactly which pitfall they’re about to hit, but there’s no way to stop it from happening as Potter says, “No, but the place Draco and I got is in much better condition.” He shrugs. “Nothing really needs doing, there.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Then Narcissa sets down her spoon and very flatly says, “What.”

“Erm. We’ve…” He glances at Draco. “You… didn’t tell your parents we’ve bought a house together?” Potter asks.

“No,” says Draco. “But thank you, you’ve just done it for me.” And then because he might as well get the whole thing over with, “It’s a quaint little place in a Muggle neighborhood. Potter grew up as a Muggle, you know, and he misses the atmosphere.”

From the way Potter goes exceptionally still, jaw clenched and knuckles paling around the handle of his spoon, Draco has the idea that he’s said something very, very wrong. But the moment passes quickly and Potter’s all smiles again.

“Oh, yes,” he says, sneaking one hand over to rest on Draco’s knee. “It’s very kind of Draco to indulge me.” He squeezes hard, fingers digging into Draco’s leg.

Draco can’t quite tell what message Potter’s trying to send, but he decides to interpret it as _end this avenue of conversation right fucking now_. “It’s quite nice, the back garden is especially lovely. I’ll finally have space to start growing some of my own herbs,” Draco says, prying Potter’s fingers off his leg.

He goes on about the house, describing the rooms and the kitchen and the things he plans to do to the gardens, until the house-elves appear to clear away their soup bowls and to serve the next course. And then Draco doesn’t say another word for the rest of dinner. The conversation is dominated by Narcissa and Potter, who have struck up a discussion about the relative merits of different types of yarn for knitting, which has Draco especially baffled because prior to this evening he would have sworn that neither of them knew anything at all about knitting in the first place, let alone enough about different types of wool to carry them through six courses.

And so it’s relatively smooth sailing until dessert, when Lucius, who has heretofore chosen to remain silent, finally speaks up.

“I must say, I’d never have guessed that the famous Harry Potter would have known so much about such a quaint pastime. You have quite an eclectic taste in hobbies, between the needlecraft and the manual labour.”

“Well, I’ve never much cared about what others think of me,” Potter says.

“Well,” Lucius says, picking up his glass. “That’s always been readily apparent.”

Draco can see exactly where this is headed, and he stands up, making a grab for his serviette as it slips off his lap, misses, and ignores it as it lands crumpled on the floor to say, “I think I fancy a turn about the gardens.” He clutches at Potter’s arm. “Come with me? Please?”

He’s prepared to drag Potter out of the room if necessary, but Potter aims one last dark look across the table, and says, “That sounds lovely.”

“What an arsehole,” Harry says, as soon as they step outside. 

“Don’t talk about my father like that. Just because yours was so perfect,” Draco says as they step outside. He casts a Warming Charm around himself, and Potter does the same.

Although the sun’s not quite down yet, he waves his wand, activating the _Lumos_ charms woven through the air above the gravel paths in long strings of fairy lights. They blink to life all at once, illuminating a path across the lawn, making the rose gardens look like an illustration in a book of fairy tales, bright and calm and almost unbearably picturesque.

“My father wasn’t perfect,” Harry says as they cross the lawn, then heaves a gusty sigh and shoves a hand through his hair, briefly exposing that famous scar before his tangled fringe flops back into place. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your father and I are never going to like each other, but this is going to be hard enough without me throwing my opinions of him in your face.”

“Very well,” Draco says after a moment. “Apology accepted. And, I’m sorry, too.”

Potter peers curiously at him. “What for?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t know. But you annoy me without even trying. I can only assume I do the same to you. There’s probably something to apologise for.”

That gets a laugh out of Potter. “Well, yeah,” he says, then his smile fades, and he says, “What you said, about me missing my Muggle upbringing? I don’t. And I’d prefer to not talk about it.”

“All right,” Draco says. He’s curious as to why, but can’t exactly ask about it now, right after Potter’s said he didn’t want to say. He looks up at the sky, but can’t see the moon yet.

They walk, not speaking, and for a while the only sound is gravel crunching underfoot, slow and even. Draco doesn’t know when his footsteps synced up with Potter’s, but if he closes his eyes it almost sounds like he’s alone.

“Erm,” says Potter after a while, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about peacocks. But… is that normal for them to do that?”

Draco looks back to see that half a dozen peacocks and a lone peahen are following them.

“Do you remember when I said that birds behave oddly around me?” Draco says, then turns to walk backwards for a few steps. He gestures broadly at the peacocks, and two of them spread their wings in return. Well. That’s new.

“That is extremely creepy,” Potter says.

Draco lets his arms fall back to his sides and turns back around, and counts days in his head. When had the birds started to act strangely around him last month? It was the sparrows first, wasn’t it? And they always turned up after the new moon. The peacocks are almost a week early. Is the curse worsening? Is it because he’s been around these peacocks before and… what? He’s familiar to them? His affect on them is greater?

He glances over his shoulder. A second peahen has joined the ostentation.

“Really, really creepy,” Potter says. “I’d almost rather go back inside and make awkward smalltalk with your parents.”

“Awkward post-dinner smalltalk comes with alcohol,” Draco offers. “Father’s got a very extensive collection of Scotch.”

“Sold,” says Potter, looking more cheerful than he has all evening.

They turn around, and come face-to-face with the peacocks.

“We’ll take the long way round,” Draco says after a moment, and they turn back around.

“Mm,” Potter says, glancing over his shoulder again as they keep walking. “Yeah, that probably seems best. They don’t attack, do they?”

“No,” Draco says, then reconsiders. “Well. At least not the ones who aren’t arseholes to begin with. Mostly they just follow me and stare.”

“Creepy,” Potter says, and picks up the pace a little bit.

Draco glances back, and hurries to catch up.

* * * * *

Draco doesn’t see Potter again until Thursday when they’ve made plans for Draco to catch Potter up on the research he’s done so far, and then meet Weasley and Granger for drinks. Frankly, he’s not looking forward to either one. He leaves Zelda alone downstairs for the last half-hour the shop’s open, and takes Potter up to his flat where they sit down at Draco’s kitchen table and Draco goes over all of the tests and experiments he’s done on himself and on the feathers so far. Neither of them have managed to turn up anything new on his curse, but Draco thinks it’s best if they get on the same page as far as what hasn’t worked and what leads they’ve exhausted so far.

Then Potter waits downstairs while Draco changes into a set of his Muggle clothes: black trousers and grey shirt and a soft sage green knit sweater. He checks over his appearance in the mirror, and uses a bit of Blemish Concealer to hide the darkening circles beneath his eyes. The strange bird nightmares had come earlier this month, and Draco hasn’t slept well the past few nights. He brushes his hair back and casts a light spell over it to keep it swept neatly from his forehead, then tucks his wand up his sleeve, takes his new black peacoat, and goes downstairs.

He finds Potter in the front room, poking through vials of scarab beetles. “Is Zelda gone for the day?” he asks.

“As of about two minutes ago,” Potter says, putting the vial back on the shelf. “You ready?” He tucks his hands into his coat pockets.

Draco shrugs into his own coat and does up the shiny buttons. “Nearly. There is one more thing I’d wanted to discuss with you before we go.” He takes a deep breath, and the vials on the shelf clink as they arrange themselves neatly from where Potter’s disturbed them. “It’s about the, ah, more physical aspect of our supposed relationship.”

Potter frowns. “Well, we’re moving in together so it’s pretty safe to assume that most everyone’s going to think we’re fucking.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Draco says, and ugh, why does Potter have to be so crude? “I don’t care what anyone assumes we’re doing. I mean, what are we expected to actually do in front of them?” He hastily adds, “It’s been fine until now, in public and around my parents, but your friends might expect us to be more affectionate with each other? I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” There, now. That sounds better. That sounds like he’s being considerate rather than prudish.

“Oh!” Potter says. “That’s a good point. Er, I don’t know, we could hold hands? Maybe put our arms around each other sometimes?”

“All right,” Draco says. “That’s… all right.” He frowns a little, then blurts out, “But what about kissing?”

Potter gives him an odd look. “What about kissing?”

“Well, couples kiss one another, don’t they? They kiss hello and goodbye and sometimes in between.” He can feel his palms growing damp, and brushes them against the thighs of his trousers as subtly as he can manage.

“I guess,” Potter says slowly. “I…” He pauses, gives Draco another strange look. “Do you, er, want to kiss me?”

“Merlin, no!” Draco says far too quickly and with far too much enthusiasm.

Potter rolls his eyes. “Tell me how you really feel, Malfoy,” he says dryly.

Draco gives him a level stare. “All I’m saying is people around us might have expectations, but we know that there’s nothing going on between us, and we’re under no obligation to confirm the assumptions of others.” Potter’s still looking at him a bit oddly, so Draco hesitantly asks, “Wait. You don’t want to kiss me, do you?”

“God, no,” Potter says quickly. “Absolutely not.” And all right, yeah, no matter how much Draco doesn’t want it to happen, hearing it stated like that is a little offensive from this end of the conversation.

“So we’re in agreement, then,” Draco says, already feeling a little calmer. It’s good to have this laid out plainly between them, make sure they’re both on the same page. “And no matter what happens, we’re not going to do it. It’s good that we’ve had this talk, so that when the time comes, we can work together to extricate ourselves from the situation and leave everyone else none the wiser.”

Potter’s shaking his head a little as he stares at Draco. “Malfoy, I can honestly say I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.”

“When we’re expected to kiss,” Draco says.

Potter frowns. “We’re not going to be expected to kiss. I’m very private about my relationships. No-one’s going to expect us to do much in front of them.”

“Look, I know how this goes,” Draco insists. “Pansy and Millicent used to read these dreadfully cliched romances and hold discussions about them in the Slytherin common room. And this? Our situation? Exactly what we’ve got happening right now? This was one of the more common tropes.”

Potter squints at him. “People hiding the fact that they’re working together because one of them keeps sprouting wings and disappearing for days on end is a common trope?”

“No,” Draco says. Is Potter being deliberately thick about this? “The bit where we’re pretending to have a relationship. That always happens for whatever flimsy reason. And then somewhere along the line, they end up in a position where they’re forced to kiss.”

“And, let me guess,” Potter says, and now he sounds amused. “They pretend they didn’t enjoy it, but secretly they were pining for each other all along, and then they fall in love and live happily ever after?”

That’s… surprisingly accurate, actually. “Well, yes,” Draco says.

Potter looks even more amused. “In that case, I’m sure we haven’t got anything to worry about.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Draco says.

“No, I’m not. I’m not taking this at all seriously because it’s not going to happen because, see, we’re two grown men, yeah? We’ve agreed that there’ll be no kissing, so there won’t be.” Potter shrugs. “It’s not exactly hard to avoid kissing someone. You just… don’t do it.”

“But you can’t say that,” Draco tells him. “There might be a situation where we have to in order to maintain our cover. Like, I don’t know, mistletoe. What if there’s mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe,” Potter echoes. “Malfoy, it’s _March_.”

“Or something else that’s seasonally appropriate. I don’t know, but there might be something.” Draco can hear himself as if from far away. He’s uncomfortably aware how mad he sounds. But the thought of kissing Potter terrifies him. He has to make sure it won’t happen.

Potter sighs. “Do you know why characters in books end up in such ridiculous situations? Because they’re _characters in books_. It’s fiction, and there’s an author manipulating the plot to make it happen.” He waves a hand vaguely at the shop around them. “This? It isn’t.”

And all right, it does sound a bit ridiculous when Potter puts it like that. “Well I’m _just saying_ ,” he huffs, still unwilling to entirely concede the point.

Potter gives him a long, speculative look. “Are you always this excitable?”

“I’m not _excitable_. I just don’t want my first kiss to be with someone who doesn’t even like me,” Draco snaps, then flushes because he hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to say that at all.

It only gets worse when Potter’s amused expression immediately melts away.

“Forget it,” Draco grumbles, turning for the door. “What time are we meant to be meeting your friends?”

“Malfoy,” Potter says gently, snags Draco by the arm and tugs him to a stop. “It’s fine.” He pauses for a moment, then nods. “It’s good that we’ve had this talk so that if we find ourselves in a situation where kissing is necessary, we’ll work together to avoid it. Okay?”

Draco sighs. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Potter’s expression edges toward amused again. “We’ll just have to be very careful to avoid any and all rogue sprigs of springtime mistletoe.”

“Shut up,” Draco says. “It could happen.”

“We’ll also avoid touching any spinning wheels, and we’ll turn down any offers of apples from mysterious old women,” Potter goes on. “And if one of us turns into a frog, the other will simply have to find him a nice little pond in which he can live out the rest of his amphibious little life.”

“Now you’re just being an arsehole,” Draco tells him, but he feels a little bit better. Strange that Potter being an arse is something of a comfort.

“Nah,” Potter says, opening the door and holding it for Draco. “Oh, one more thing.”

“Hm?” Draco asks, half-distracted as he pulls the door shut and locks up.

“You said I don’t like you. And that’s not exactly true,” Potter tells him. “You’re not all that bad, you know.”

Draco looks up at him, the key still in the lock, and frowns. “So, what, you’re saying we’re suddenly friends?”

“I’m not saying we’re friends,” Potter says. “At least, not yet. We don’t know each other well enough for that, I think. But it’s been a long time since school and we’ve both grown up, haven’t we? I think it’ll happen.”

Draco slides the key from the lock in a soft clatter of tumblers dropping back into place. “I suppose so.”

“Besides,” Potter says as they turn away from the shop. “I wouldn’t be helping you if I still hated you.”

That makes Draco snort. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. You’d try to help me even if I were the Dark Lord himself.”

“Well, maybe that’s true,” Potter says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But unlike him, I think you truly deserve it.” He sighs, looking up as the streetlamps flicker to life. “He made his choices. You were just stuck in a bad situation and doing the best you could, same as all the rest of us. And… well, you’re different now. The Malfoy I knew back at Hogwarts would have driven himself into the ground before he ever asked for help.”

“Some things are too much for one person,” Draco says.

The corner of Potter’s mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “Believe me, I know.”

They’re quiet as they pass through the Leaky Cauldron and out into Muggle London. This isn’t the first time Draco’s been out of the wizarding sections of the city. He’s passed through a handful of times in his adolescence, and he’d just been again with Potter when they went shopping and then met the estate agent to look for a house. But it’s worse, now, than it was then. It’s busier on a Thursday evening, and it’s loud and overwhelming and there are Muggles absolutely everywhere, hurrying this way and that. Some of them are holding odd little rectangles of metal to their ears or poking at them in their hands and they’re not watching where they’re going. He nearly collides with one, jumps out of the way and knocks into another.

“Watch it!” the Muggle snaps at him.

“C’mon,” Potter says to him, and loops his arm through Draco’s and tugs him flush against Potter’s side.

They fit together awkwardly. Their hips bump before they figure out how to match their strides, and at one point Draco steps on Potter’s untied shoelace, and Potter stumbles and very nearly goes down and takes Draco with him. But Draco holds tight to his arm and lets Potter steer him through the crowd. They come to a stop at the edge of a street and wait to cross. The words LOOK RIGHT are painted in big white letters at the start of the striped path marked out on the street, which doesn’t inspire all that much confidence in Muggles if they have to remind themselves to not get hit by the large metal carriages that are zooming around. Then Potter tugs him forward and they continue across the street.

Thankfully, they’re not going much farther. Potter turns to the second building down from the corner and leads Draco up to it.

Potter pushes the door open, already popping open the buttons on his coat with one hand, and Draco trails along behind him. The pub is dim and about half-full, and it’s quieter and more peaceful than the street outside. Draco follows Potter across the room to a table near the back where Granger and Weasley are already sitting.

“Hey,” Potter says brightly, stripping off his coat and dropping it over the back of the chair next to Weasley.

“Hi, Harry. Hello, Malfoy,” Granger says brightly, and beside her, Weasley stares at Draco as though he thinks he might be hallucinating.

“Hello,” Draco says, working open the buttons of his coat. He shrugs out of it and hangs it neatly over the back of his chair.

They sit down at the table, and Merlin, this is awkward. Weasley still hasn’t said anything, and Granger keeps flicking nervous little glances at him while also hanging onto a reassuring smile through what looks like sheer determination.

“Glad you could make it,” Potter says cheerfully to Weasley, as if the horrifying awkwardness of this whole situation simply doesn’t register in his little Potter-ish brain. “I was worried you’d have to work late again.”

“Should we be talking about this in front of…” Weasley says, trailing off with a significant glance at Draco.

“The Fieldman case,” Potter says to Draco, and pauses to flick a defiant glance at Weasley before he continues, “is about a Mister Christopher Fieldman, who has already been arrested and is awaiting a hearing before the Wizengamot on several charges of trafficking illegal goods, particularly Goblin artefacts that have been stolen mostly from Russia, but also from Belarus, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan, and imported illegally into England. He’s obviously not working alone, but he’s not speaking up about who his supplier is. So now a bunch of us are stuck doing loads of tedious paperwork, going through shipping registries and invoices, and trying to see if we can find what doesn’t add up where.”

Draco goes suddenly still because some of that sounds terribly, terribly familiar.

“Harry,” Weasley says, so sharply that for an instant Draco’s terrified he’s been made. But Weasley’s focused entirely on Potter, and Granger is focused on Weasley. Draco inhales slowly, exhales even slower, and tries to keep his expression calm and unbothered.

“Ron,” Harry echoes in the same sharp tone. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that Malfoy is neither Russian nor a Goblin.”

“You can’t be too careful about open investigations,” Weasley says sullenly, and glowers into his pint glass.

Potter sighs. “I need a drink,” he says, then nudges Draco with his elbow. “What’ll you have?”

“Oh, ah,” Draco turns and looks over his shoulder, but none of the bottles behind the bar look at all familiar. “Whatever you’re having, I suppose.”

“Great, I’ll be right back, then,” Potter says, and is up and out of his chair before Draco can protest.

 _Don’t leave me here_ , Draco thinks desperately and then, too late, Potter’s gone. He turns back to face Potter’s friends. Weasley’s still watching Draco suspiciously, so he turns to Granger.

“How have you been?” he asks politely. He just has to get through the next few minutes and then Potter will be back. He can make a few minutes of smalltalk. It’ll be fine.

“Doing well, and yourself?” Granger replies, and then before he has a chance to answer her, goes on, “I haven’t seen you recently. Zelda tells me you’re spending more time brewing these days.”

He nods. “I have. Business has been good,” he says. “Busy, but good. There was a mail order apothecary over in Oxford that closed recently, and I’ve picked up some of their business all at once.”

“Oh, Zelda mentioned something about that, I think,” Granger says. “And how is she doing? We didn’t have much of a chance to chat last time I stopped in. I was in a bit of a rush.”

“She’s doing well,” Draco says after a moment. On the one hand, he’d love to latch onto the topic of Zelda to get him through this. On the other, he can’t bring himself to talk about her behind her back. It feels oddly disloyal, even though he wouldn’t say anything about her that she wouldn’t hesitate to tell Granger herself.

They smile at each other, a bit awkwardly. Weasley huffs a sigh and looks pointedly away.

Potter returns just then, bringing back two pints of something dark with a thick layer of creamy froth floating on top. He sets one in front of Draco and keeps the other for himself as he takes his seat, scooting his chair a little closer and angling it toward Draco so that their knees are almost brushing.

“So,” Granger says brightly to Draco. “Harry says you’re getting a house together?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Draco says, smiles and lets himself lean a little closer to Potter so that their shoulders lean briefly together, and Potter gives him a soft smile in return. “We’re looking forward to it. One more week before we can move in.”

Potter’s knee bumps lightly against Draco’s, and Draco shifts away to break the slight contact.

“Oh, that’s exciting,” Granger says. “I didn’t realise it was so soon. Have you hired a van to move your things over? Oh, do you need help? Ron and I aren’t doing anything then. We’d be glad to help you and Malfoy get yourselves all settled in.”

And Draco can just see how that would go. Granger being bossy and telling him and Potter what should go where, and how they ought to organise things. And Weasley being all sullen and silently judgemental, casting looks at Draco as if he’s not good enough for Potter. And Merlin, as if Draco doesn’t already bloody well _know_ that; of course an ex-Death Eater isn’t good enough for the Chosen One. Weasley certainly doesn’t need to point that out every other second.

Potter looks like he’s about to agree to Granger’s suggestions, his expression brightening as he opens his mouth to reply, and Draco panics.

“Sex,” Draco blurts out. “We’re going to have loads of sex.”

There’s a long, stunned moment of silence. Granger’s eyebrows shoot up nearly to her hairline, and Weasley’s mouth drops open. And oh, why did Draco have to say that? Why couldn’t he have said _literally anything else_? Because now they’re staring. They’re staring and they’re thinking about his cock, aren’t they? They’re thinking about his cock and Potter’s cock and his and Potter’s cocks together. Draco feels vaguely ill and he can feel his face going pink.

“Tremendous amounts of sex,” Potter agrees after a moment, and damn him, he looks amused. “Sex marathons, one might say.”

Draco elbows him in the ribs as subtly as he can manage, and Potter hides a smirk and nudges at Draco’s knee with his own.

“Sex… marathons?” Weasley repeats, sounding as if he very much hopes he’s misheard.

“Marathons of sex,” Potter confirms. “So, thank you very much for the offer, but you can see why we’d prefer if you didn’t. In any case, it’s not necessary. Between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll have the situation… well in hand.” He says that last part with a bit of a leer, and Draco wants to _die_.

“Ah,” says Granger while Weasley looks one step away from getting up and walking out of the pub. “Still in the honeymoon phase, I take it?”

“Mm-hm,” Potter says, slipping his arm around Draco and smiling at him fondly. “Very much so.”

Draco wants to sink through the floor and disappear forever.

There is a bit of a silver lining, it turns out. By the time Draco stops trying to wish himself out of existence and his cheeks no longer feel aflame, Potter and Granger have settled into a long discussion of the current changes that Department Head Howell is proposing to the current Registration process for lycanthropes. Draco leaves them to it and sips his way through his pint. Weasley doesn’t say another word for the rest of the evening and it’s not a complete disaster.

It’s about the best that Draco thinks he could reasonably have expected.

* * * * *

After meeting Granger and Weasley on Thursday, Draco meets Katie for lunch on Friday and casually mentions the fact that Aurors are looking into any business contacts of a Mister Christopher Fieldman. He thinks Katie’s eyes widen in recognition at the name, but she doesn’t give any further indication one way or the other and he doesn’t ask, and then she takes a long sip of her drink and smirks as she asks innocently whether active cases are what constitute pillowtalk between Draco and his Auror boyfriend, and then Katie teases Draco for being shy before she turns the conversation to her own beau.

After that, he spends the rest of Friday and all of Saturday in a mild panic at the thought of meeting all the rest of the Weasleys on Sunday. But Zelda saves him from it by coming down with a perfectly-timed bout of the flu. She sends him a very apologetic message early that morning, and Draco sends her back a variety of Fever Reducers, Decongestant Potions, along with potions for chills, aches, and little jar of Healing Salve to put on her nose should it get raw from being constantly wiped—all freshly brewed for maximum potency—and assurances that that she needn’t worry about him nor should she feel guilty for spoiling his plans for the afternoon. Then he explains the situation to Potter, who grumbles a bit at having to go to the Burrow without him after he’d said Draco would be there.

But there’s nothing to be done for it, Draco thinks cheerfully to himself as he casts his morning cleaning charms. He remains in good spirits as he clears the skylight and waters the fanged geranium. He knows he’s only putting off the inevitable, but Potter’s going to be gone next weekend—something about an additional training course he’s required to take as an Auror—and Draco won’t be expected to turn up alone for the first time. He knows it’ll be worse in two weeks. Draco will have had far more time to worry about it, and he’ll be just three days away from his next transformation, and he’ll have moved into the new house with Potter just two days earlier. But for now, he’s still immensely grateful for the reprieve.

He’s not even mad about it when he comes down with Zelda’s flu three days later. Thankfully, she’s recovered from her bout with it and is available to run the shop. Draco throws on his dressing gown and staggers downstairs just long enough to tell her that she’s on her own for the day before he stumbles back up to his flat and collapses back into bed, too ill and exhausted to even feel strange about being in bed during the daytime.

He falls asleep easily, and dreams he’s washing his hands. There’s a little speck of black beneath his nail of his middle finger. He uses his thumbnail to get at it, digging a little, working it loose. It’s bigger than it looked through the top of his nail, stretching out until it’s long enough for Draco to pinch between two fingers. But when he pulls, it just keeps coming, longer and longer, until a whole black feather emerges from under his fingernail.

Draco jerks awake to a loud _thump_ against his window, but when he flips back the curtains, nothing’s there. Part of the dream, then. He must have dreamt it.

Groaning, he flops back against his pillows. It’s too hot beneath his blankets, his sheets and pyjamas damp with sweat. But he doesn’t have the energy to get up and change them. He manages a spell to dry them out and another to freshen them up, and by that time the chills have set in again so he burrows back under the blankets and rolls onto his side.

He’s barely started to drift off again when someone knocks three times on his door. Draco ignores it, and they knock again a minute later.

Draco drags himself upright and squints at the clock. It’s nearly lunchtime, Zelda must be stopping in to check on him. He struggles into his dressing gown and knots the sash around his waist when she knocks a third time.

He unlocks the door and flings it open, ready to tell Zelda to sod off and go back downstairs, but it’s not her standing on his narrow landing.

“Wow,” says Potter. “You look bloody awful.”

“What,” Draco says, blinking. “Potter?”

“Zelda owled me this morning,” he says, pushing past Draco and crossing the flat to set down a bag on the table. Draco pushes the door shut and trails after him. “She said you looked really ill and she was worried about you, but she didn’t think you’d take kindly to her checking up on you, so,” He hefts a large covered pot from the bag, “here I am.”

“Why?” Draco asks as Potter hefts the pot onto the hob and flicks his wand to light the flame.

“Well, Zelda seemed really worried,” Potter says, adjusting the heat. “I couldn’t exactly say no, since we’re supposed to be dating.” He lifts the lid of the pot, releasing a burst of fragrant steam, and Transfigures the lid into a long handled spoon to give it a stir.

Draco blinks, because he’s still not entirely convinced this isn’t a strange fever dream. Honestly, it seems no less improbable than yanking a feather out from underneath his fingernail. “You’ve brought me soup?”

Potter shrugs. “I was coming over anyhow, I figured I might as well.” He shrugs again. “The soup came from the Manor, by the way.”

“What?” Draco stares at him, stares at the pot, stares at Potter again. “You went to the Manor and asked my parents for soup?”

“Nah,” says Potter. “I owled your mum to ask what you liked when you’re sick. She had the house-elves make this for you for me to bring over. It’s er,” Potter glances uncertainly at the pot. “Chicken noodle soup, but without the chicken?”

“I don’t like meat in soups,” Draco says faintly. Then, “I’m surprised she didn’t insist on coming over herself.”

“I convinced her I had it all under control, so you don’t have to worry about her turning up,” Potter says, then grins. “Look at that, I’m earning good boyfriend points and good _fake_ -boyfriend points at the same time, yeah?”

Draco just shakes his head. This has to be some sort of fever-induced hallucination, doesn’t it? Because Potter really can’t be here, bringing Draco soup just because he’s sick. People that nice don’t actually exist.

“Sit down, this’ll be done in a minute,” Potter says, and Draco is too exhausted and too achey and too addled to do anything other than what he’s told. “Have you taken any potions?”

“I’m an apothecarist. Of course I have,” Draco says, then admits, “I’m due another dose of Fever Reducer, though.”

Potter brings over the vial along with a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup.

“There,” he says, setting it down in front of Draco and going back to the kitchenette to fetch him a spoon. “Eat that, and then see if you can sleep for a while. I’ll stop by again after work, okay?” He’s already heading for the door.

“You don’t need to check up on me,” Draco tells him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I don’t care about you,” says Potter. He points at the stove. “That’s my pot and I want it back.” Then he flashes Draco a cheeky grin and is gone, clattering down the stairs, before Draco can point out that in a week and a half they’ll be moved in together, and then Draco will have unlimited access to all of Potter’s kitchen implements, if he’s really so worried about Draco absconding with one single pot.

Draco stares blearily at the closed door for a few moments, then takes a careful sip of broth from his soup.

It’s really good.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco recovers from his bout of flu in time to spend all of the following week worrying about moving in with Potter and meeting the Weasleys and the worsening symptoms of his curse.

It’s past midnight on the day before they’re going to make the move, and Draco is downstairs hunched over a cauldron instead of tucked into his warm bed, where he probably should be. But his flat, his warm cosy little _home_ , is currently in shambles. Tomorrow afternoon he moves into his new house with Potter, and all of his things are packed up into boxes, ready to be taken over. He’ll have to shrink them down and transport them by Floo to Potter’s house, where Potter has hired them a van to drive their things to the new house so as to avoid arousing the suspicion of their Muggle neighbours.

Oh Merlin. He’s going to have Muggle neighbours. The thought of it alone is nearly enough to make him panic.

Draco gives the Scintillating Solution one final stir and then shuffles down a few steps to see to the second cauldron he’s got bubbling, this one with a potion to alleviate muscle aches. After all the lifting he and Potter have to do tomorrow, he expects they’ll need it.

He doesn’t want to go. He really, truly, honestly doesn’t. He loves his little flat. It’s comfortable and it’s familiar and it’s his, and most importantly, he doesn’t have to share it with Potter.

Draco sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. He shouldn’t be thinking this. He shouldn’t. It’s ungrateful of him. As much as it inconveniences him to have to move away, this whole mess is inconveniencing Potter a thousand times more, isn’t it? Potter is too kind, and it makes Draco uncomfortable. He’s never known what to do with people who go out of their way for others without expecting anything in return.

He’ll have to figure out some way to repay Potter. Draco can’t live with things so unbalanced between them. He won’t live in Potter’s debt.

( _But isn’t he already in Potter’s debt?_ comes the unwelcome thought. Potter saved his life once, and here he’s doing it again. How can Draco ever repay him for that?)

Merlin, he’s tired. His exhaustion feels like a weight that’s constantly dragging at him. His eyes feel dry and gritty, everything a little bleary and slightly too-bright. He wants so, so badly to go upstairs and crawl into his bed and fall into a deep and blissfully solid sleep, but has been putting it off. The nightmares this month are undeniably worse, intense and unsettling in a way that lingers long after he wakes up. He’s had the one about the feather under his fingernail twice more. In the last one, he had to peel back his cuticles and pry up his nail to get it out. Sometimes the dreams wake him in the middle of the night and he can’t fall back asleep, no matter how many different sleeping potions he tries. It’s taking its toll on him.

But sometimes, if he’s pushed himself to the very brink of collapse, he can get in a few good hours of sleep without dreaming.

The potion for muscle aches is done, so Draco extinguishes the flame beneath it and decants it into several vials. Some he labels and puts price stickers on and sets aside to be put out in the shop for sale, and some he labels and sets aside to take with him tomorrow. He puts the cauldron in the sink and runs water into it. He blinks blearily and watches the water rise, watches the dregs of the muscle ache potion lift off the bottom of the cauldron and float free. Going upstairs and climbing into bed is all he can think about. He’s finally reached the point where he wants to sleep more than anything else in the world.

Draco makes himself wait until he’s filled the cauldron all the way to the brim with hot water so the potion doesn’t dry on. Then he turns off the lights and goes upstairs to try to sleep.

* * * * *

Instead of awakening to the steady tap-tap-tapping of the sparrow at his window, as he’s grown accustomed to doing, this morning Draco wakes to a loud _bang! bang! bang!_ echoing up from below. Groaning, he drags himself out of bed and snatches his dressing gown from its peg by the bathroom door and shoves his arms through the sleeves as he goes downstairs, yanking the belt tight around his waist moments before he storms into his potions lab, revealing Zelda glowering at the ceiling from where she stands on a stool, broom firmly in hand, banging the handle repeatedly against the plaster.

“ _What_ ,” he demands, “are you _doing_ with that—”

Zelda turns on him, brandishing her broom and glaring down at him from atop her stool. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for _five minutes_ —”

“—and why in the bloody hell are you—”

“—you must sleep like the bloody dead—”

“—banging on my ceiling with that Merlin-forsaken _broom_ , are you a witch or aren’t you, can’t you use a spell like a civilised person to—”

“—and I’m trying to respect your _bloody privacy_ , unless you’d rather me send a Patronus stampeding through your _boudoir_ —”

“—better that than _single-handedly demolishing my shop with a bloody broomstick_ , just _look_ at my _ceiling_ , you’ve put _dents_ in the _plaster_ —”

“Oh, sod your bloody plaster!” Zelda shouts at him.

Zelda never shouts at him, and it startles Draco into a short, shocked silence. For a long moment they stare at each other, Draco angry, and Zelda looking terrified and furious.

Draco holds his glare for a moment longer, takes a deep breath, and tries to remain calm as he says, “I ought to fire you.”

“Ha!” Zelda scoffs, gesturing with the broomstick. “You’d be lost without me. And if you want to talk about demolishing your shop, _I’m_ not the one who left a Scintillating Solution bubbling overnight on an open flame!”

Draco falters, looking over at his worktable where there’s a smoking cauldron placed under a tight Containment Spell, exactly where Draco had left it last night before he’d gone up to bed. One of the main ingredients of Scintillating Solution is Exploding Fluid, and Draco’s got no idea how he didn’t blow up his whole building.

A cold wash of horror sweeps through him at how close he came to killing himself.

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Zelda says, folding her arms over her chest.

He stares at the cauldron, then huffs. “And I don’t have a _boudoir_.”

“Yes,” Zelda says, rolling her eyes at him. She hops down off the stool. “Because that’s the most pressing point, not that you nearly burnt down your shop with you asleep upstairs.”

Draco hasn’t got anything to say to that.

Zelda sighs and lets her hands drop to her sides. “Draco, you’re trying to do too much. I know you don’t want to hire an assistant to help you brew, but you clearly need one.”

It’s not that. It’s all the research he’s trying to do on top of brewing and running his shop, and the curse driving him to distraction. He’s so, so tired all the time, and the nightmares this week have been so bad he’s begun to dread going to sleep each night. But he can’t tell her that. He can’t tell her any of that.

“Fine,” he says. “Since it matters so much to you. From now on, you’ll be assisting me when I need an extra pair of hands to help brew. I want an advertisement written up for a new shop assistant and placed in tomorrow’s paper. You’re handling the interviews for that. Be sure to pick a good one because you’ll be training them as well.”

He turns to go back upstairs, and Zelda calls up the stairs after him, “That sounds like an awful lot of responsibility you’re suddenly handing over. Is this a promotion?”

Draco rolls his eyes and runs some quick arithmetic in his head, but doesn’t turn around. “Congratulations, consider yourself promoted. The new position comes with a 5% increase in salary and no official set hours.”

“Throw in a 5% reduction in the number of times you shout at me and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Don’t press your luck,” he replies, and it gives him no small measure of satisfaction to shout it down the stairs at her.

He can’t see her, but he’d bet anything she just rolled her eyes at him.

Up in his flat again and alone, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. Because this is for the best.

Perhaps it’s a bit of putting the carriage before the thestral. But he wants Zelda to know everything about how to run the shop in case the worst happens. He still has no idea what curse he’s under or how he can expect it to progress. All he knows is that the symptoms are gradually growing more severe, and he has to plan for the worst. If it continues on and it incapacitates him, or even kills him, he wants her to be able to continue running the shop after he’s gone. And in the meantime he’ll have to stretch his Galleons a bit further to cover another shop assistant, but Zelda will need a staff of her own if she’s going to take on all the brewing by herself.

It feels like a small weight’s been lifted from his shoulders to know that his shop will outlive him. He washes up, dresses quickly, and bolts down a slice of dry toast before going back downstairs where Zelda is elbows-deep in the sink, the lemony smell of Cauldron Soap filling the air.

“I’ve got some business I need to see to,” he says to her. “And leave that to soak, I’ll take care of it when I return.” He takes his cloak from its hook. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

Diagon Alley is still mostly quiet at this hour of the morning, and Draco enjoys the short walk up the street, where he enters a modest stone building and steps up to the receptionist seated behind a low desk and asks to speak with his solicitor.

He doesn’t have an appointment, but one of the advantages of being a Malfoy is that his solicitor practically falls over himself to see to Draco. At first, the wizard seems baffled by Draco’s desire to leave everything to his shop assistant, but the confusion quickly turns to sly looks and knowing smiles, and oh Merlin. He’s got the wrong idea entirely, but if it makes this whole bloody process go more quickly for him to think that Zelda is Draco’s misstress, so be it.

The whole process takes longer than Draco would like, but he has everything sorted before lunchtime. He leaves a copy of his will with his solicitor, stops by Gringotts on his way back to the shop to put a second copy in his vault, and then keeps the third copy to take back to his flat and file away with the rest of his important papers.

“Is everything all right?” Zelda asks when he finally returns. She’s behind the counter with the daily crossword.

Draco gives her a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just a few loose ends that needed to be tied up. Why don’t you go on to lunch? I’ll take over out here.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Zelda says. “I’ve brought my lunch in today, I’ll eat in a little while. You, on the other hand, need to get going if you’re going to meet Harry in time to have all your things moved in today.”

“Oh,” says Draco, checking the clock. “Are you sure? I could take over for a little while, give you a bit of a break.”

“Go on,” Zelda says. “Get out of here. It’s been slow today, anyhow.” She lifts the paper and gives it a flap. “This is pretty much all I’ve done since I’ve been in.”

“All right,” Draco says. “Well. Thank you. I’ll be in at the usual time tomorrow. Owl me if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Zelda says. “Now go! And don’t worry about anything. Your shop’s in good hands.” She grins at him.

And Draco can’t help but smile back. “I know it is,” he tells her.

* * * * *

It takes all afternoon to unload their things and carry them into the house. They’re interrupted twice by their new neighbours, and Draco smiles and then goes to hide in the house while Potter talks to them. Draco is acutely aware that they’re Muggles, and even though they seem friendly—especially Mrs Field, the woman who lives to their left, along with her husband and their baby—Draco’s still uncomfortable.

Draco slips Potter the potion he’d brought along for muscle aches, and Potter takes it gratefully before they both set to unpacking, which goes quickly, once they close all their windows and use their wands to do it. They bicker a little bit, but mostly agree about how the furniture ought to be arranged. Draco’s prepared for more bickering once they reach the kitchen, but Potter says he doesn’t cook and tells Draco to put things however he’d like. It doesn’t take long to get everything put away into the cupboards. They’ve both brought over the contents of their kitchens, and Draco puts the dry goods into a cabinet above the counter. There’s an enormous silver box that looks disturbingly like a large coffin stood up on its end that Potter calls a refrigerator and tells him is for keeping cold things cold. And indeed, when Draco opens it up and sticks his hand inside, the air is chilly. He puts away his things and Potter’s things, stacking them in neat rows on the shelves, then shuts the door again to keep the cold air in.

They have a somewhat larger argument over who gets the more spacious of the two bedrooms, with each of them insisting the other take it. Draco wins by pointing out that the elm tree hides the smaller bedroom’s window from view, and that’ll make it easier for him to transform and fly away unnoticed. Potter doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he ends up with the larger room.

When Draco finishes Levitating his bed and his wardrobe and all of his boxed-up things into his new bedroom, it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. It’s plain, four walls and wood floor and single window. It feels strange and bare and stifling, even after he’s got his furniture arranged. He puts his bed to the left with his bedside table next to it, and the wardrobe goes on the right. There’s just enough room under the window for him to put his escritoire, and the chair fits snugly into the corner beside the wardrobe when he’s not using it.

Stepping back, he looks around and frowns. Well. Perhaps it’ll look more home-y once he gets his things unpacked and his bed made up. He opens up the first box, which contains jumpers and shirts, and begins to put everything away.

“Hey,” Potter says, tapping lightly on the doorframe before he sticks his head in. “Molly sent over a casserole and I’m about to heat it up if you’re hungry?”

“No. Thank you,” Draco says, pausing with one of his old Hogwarts jumpers in his hands. Why had he even brought this old thing? It’s not as if he’s ever going to wear it again. He tucks it away into the bottom drawer of his wardrobe.

“Are you sure? There’s plenty,” Potter says. “It’s beef and veg.”

“No,” Draco says again, reaching back into the box at his side and pulling out one of his new cardigans. He shakes it loose, and refolds it before putting it away. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

Potter lingers in the doorway for a moment longer before he says. “Okay. Well, it’ll be down there if you change your mind.”

He finishes putting away his clothing, makes up the bed with warm sheets and a the big puffy mulberry silk duvet that had seen him through seven years of chilly nights in the Slytherin dungeons, plumps up his feather pillows and arranges them against the wrought iron headboard. He puts his alarm clock on the small bedside table and stacks a couple of books he’s currently reading beside it. He takes the green curtains that’d previously hung in the archway of his sleeping alcove and hangs them up over the window.

The walls still look too bare, but Draco brought over a few pictures from his flat. They’re pages from an herb guide, enlarged and framed. He made sure the three he brought with him are all plants that are familiar to Muggles. He puts them on one wall, and on another he hangs a little shelf and arranges some candles on it.

Stepping back, Draco surveys his work with a critical eye. It doesn’t feel like home yet. It’s still strange and unfamiliar and uncomfortable and Draco’s acutely aware that there are Muggles all around him. But it feels a little closer. Like maybe it’s got the potential for him to be comfortable here. He’s not so optimistic that he thinks he and Potter will break the curse before he has a chance to settle in. So long as he’s to be stuck here, he might as well come to think of it as home.

He has a few boxes left, all books, and he Levitates them across the hall to the small room he and Potter have designated as a library, then tucks his wand up his sleeve. That’ll be the last bit of magic this house sees. He and Potter had agreed that, other than the necessary spells they’ll need to work to manage Draco’s transformations, they’ll be doing as much as possible the Muggle way. The chances of someone catching them at it in their own home are slim, but they don’t want to get into the habit of using magic all the time around here. Draco especially is afraid he might do something to give himself away. 

Out in the hall, he catches a whiff of cooking food that makes his stomach grumble even though he probably won’t be able to bring himself to eat any of it. Draco’s aware that his mental image of the Burrow as a dirty run-down hovel probably isn’t entirely accurate, but it’s enough to put him off anything that’s come from the Weasley kitchen until he’s able to see it for himself.

Until then, he’s got some leftover pasta of his own that he can heat up.

He finds Potter down in the kitchen peering forlornly into the oven. He startles a bit when he notices Draco. “Oh,” he says, straightening up. “It’s probably got a few minutes left.”

“It’s all yours, thank you,” Draco says, fetching his bowl of pasta from the refrigerator. Potter’s got the oven occupied, so Draco taps the bowl with his wand and heats it up with a Warming Charm, even though that tends to make leftover pasta mushy. Too late he remembers he’s not supposed to be doing magic, but Potter doesn’t say anything and Draco tucks his wand back up his sleeve. He takes a plate from the cupboard and dumps the pasta onto it, sets it temporarily aside while he rinses out the bowl and leaves it by the side of the sink to wash afterward.

When he returns to his plate of pasta, he finds a fork lying on the counter beside it.

Frowning, Draco looks over at Potter, who’s sliding a glass casserole pan from the oven. There’s another fork lying beside the plate he’d set out for himself. It’s a kind gesture, but Draco hasn’t cleaned the counters here yet. He puts the fork in the sink and gets himself a clean one from the drawer, then sits down at the table. Potter joins him a moment later with a plate of casserole that, for all that it might’ve been produced in a dirty hovel kitchen, looks and smells amazing. Draco looks down at his own plate of pasta, which suddenly isn’t nearly so appealing.

“I’ll be right back. Go on and start,” Potter says, then gets up and leaves the room.

Draco’s made it through a single determined forkful of mushy pasta when Potter returns, two bottles of Butterbeer in hand.

“Here,” Potter says, grinning a little as he passes one of the bottles to Draco. “Surprise.”

“But,” Draco looks down at it. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to keep anything obviously wizarding in the house.”

Robes could be explained away as costumes, should anyone see them, and the chances of that happening were slight. But Draco had been forced to leave behind his prized wizarding wireless. And Butterbeers were right out. They’ll have to throw away the empty bottles when they finish, and what if someone sees the labels and starts to ask questions?

Potter shrugs and uncorks his bottle. “I thought we could make a bit of an exception for our first night. Go on, it’s only the two. I’ll even take the bottles to work with me tomorrow and toss them out there.”

Draco turns the bottle over in his hand, dragging a thumb through the condensation collecting on the label. “I haven’t had Butterbeer in years,” he says, and pops the cork.

“Well,” Potter says, holding his bottle across the table. “Cheers.”

Draco gives him a smile as he leans over the table and clinks the neck of his bottle against Potters. “Cheers,” he echoes, and takes a swallow.

It’s cold and sweet and a thousand memories of Hogwarts come rushing back to him at once, of long Saturday afternoons whiled away in Hogsmeade, of smuggling Butterbeer back to the castle and drinking them in the Slytherin common room over raucous games of Spit or Exploding Snap.

They eat in silence, and perhaps it’s the Butterbeer that makes him feel warm and loose, but it’s not nearly as awkward as Draco thought it’d be. He and Potter finish eating, and then Potter washes the dishes while Draco dries them and puts them away, and covers the rest of the casserole and puts it back into the refrigerator. Draco sets their empty Butterbeer bottles aside for Potter to get rid of tomorrow.

It’s past eight o’clock and Draco’s exhausted, but he’s in a new place and in close quarters with Potter and doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep. He thinks of the fingernail dream, and shudders. No, he’d best stay up a little while longer before he tries to sleep.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” he says. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please,” says Potter. “I’ve got some files I need to go through for work, I’ll definitely need a good cuppa to get through them.” He pauses, snaps his fingers. “Oh. Hang on, I’ve got something else for you…”

He hurries out of the room, and Draco frowns after him for a moment before he fills up the kettle and puts it on.

“Here,” Potter says when he returns, holding his hands tucked behind his back. He waits until Draco is looking at him before he reveals two mugs with a little flourish and sets them on the counter next to where Draco’s put the box of tea. “For you. Well, for us. Happy housewarming.”

“Oh,” Draco says, staring down at the mugs. One is a bright, cheery yellow, and the other is a gentle shade of green. Both of them are astoundingly plain. Muggle, he assumes. “I, ah. I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s fine,” Potter says, looking immensely pleased with himself, and Draco just knows he’s one of those people who enjoy giving a gift more than receiving one. Draco’s never understood people like that. Potter goes on, “I charmed them myself, so that they’ll keep your tea hot for longer.”

“But…” Draco says, reaching out to touch the yellow one. He can feel the gentle hum of magic woven through it. “We agreed. No magical things in the house.”

“It’s fine, Malfoy. They look Muggle, see. Hiding in plain sight.” He gives Draco a lopsided little smile. “Like we are.”

Draco can’t help but smile as he picks up the green one. “Well obviously this one is mine. And that one’s yours, you Hufflepuff.” He nudges the yellow one closer to Harry.

“Hey,” Potter says, hooking a finger through the handle of his mug and tugging it across the counter to sit beside him. “Hufflepuffs are hardworking and loyal and some of the very best people there are.”

“I know,” Draco says. He stares down at his mug, because it’s easier to say this to pottery than to Potter. “I know they are. They’re. Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Potter says. “For everything.”

Silence stretches between them, a little uncomfortable. Draco breaks it a few minutes later, saying, “Go on and get your files, then. I’ll bring your tea when it’s ready. You take it with milk, don’t you?” There’s half a bottle in the refrigerator, sitting beside Draco’s carton of almond milk.

“Yeah. Thanks, Malfoy,” Potter says. 

He leaves the room, and returns a few minutes later with a stack of files tucked under his arm. He settles down at the dining table, spreads the files open in front of him, and flips open a battered journal where he’s been scribbling down notes. Within a minute or two, he’s entirely absorbed in his work, shuffling through files and jotting down the occasional line or two in his journal, and he doesn’t look up from it until Draco sets the yellow mug of tea at his elbow.

“Thanks,” Potter says, then picks up the mug and takes a sip before going back to his notes.

Draco fetches a few potions journals he’s been meaning to go through along with the Spring 2003 catalogue of Enchanted Cauldrons, a company that specialises in brewing equipment that’s as aesthetically pleasing as it is functional. Their cauldrons are ridiculously overpriced, even if they are gorgeous. The Autumn 2002 collection had been magical creature themed, and there’d been a whole set of cauldrons, the outsides of each one etched with elaborately-detailed dragons, a different breed each on pewter and copper and brass and silver and gold. But the outrageous prices had been enough to steel Draco’s resolve. Instead he’d indulged in a single stirring rod, solid silver and wrought to look like a Chinese Fireball. Zelda still teases him about it.

Browsing through the catalogue will be a reward if he makes it through two of the journal issues he’s been neglecting over the past few months. He tucks it underneath the January issue of _Practical Potions_ with just one corner sticking out to provide motivation by taunting him with its mere presence, then flips open the issue of _Brewing Bimonthly_ he’s been avoiding since last November. It’s his least favourite periodical and it features lengthy articles by some of his least favourite writers.

It’s surprisingly peaceful, sitting in the kitchen with Potter and sipping his tea and chewing his way through a painfully dense article about the subtle differences between drying herbs in an oven versus drying them in the sun versus drying them indoors. From the first paragraph, Draco knows without having to check the author’s name that it’s Edmund Cross. Draco loathes the Edmund Cross articles, but suffers them because they are every bit as informative as they are boring.

Draco has an easier time keeping his mind from wandering off this one than most others he’s read in the past, and wonders whether it’s because he’s not alone. Even though Potter doesn’t say anything as they work, there’s something about his presence that’s comforting in the same way that it’s a comfort to work in his lab and know that Zelda’s right in the next room. For a while there’s just the occasional rustle of pages being turned, the steady _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock on the wall, interspersed with the soft clunk of a mug being set down again on the table. Draco makes it through the rest of the Cross article, stifles a yawn, and starts on the next. It’s becoming harder to make his eyes focus on the tiny print, and they really ought to start using a larger font or they’re going to force Draco into a pair of reading glasses. And that would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?

He glances across the table at Potter, who’s idly tapping the end of his Muggle pen against his bottom lip as he reads. His glasses are every bit as big and clunky and ugly as they’d been at Hogwarts, and Draco will cheerfully go blind before he ever puts something so horrible onto his own face.

The font remains stubbornly tiny when he returns his attention to it, and another yawn swells up, too big to stifle. His jaw cracks quietly.

“Go to bed, Malfoy,” Potter says without looking up from his files. “You’re about to fall asleep right where you’re sitting.”

Draco glances at the clock. It’s not quite nine o’clock yet, but it’s been a long day. Perhaps he’ll be able to sleep. He closes his potions journal and swallows the last gulp of tea, then washes his mug and puts it away. He turns back to the table just in time to see Potter tapping his wand to the journals. The covers shimmer and shift, and the potions journals transform into Muggle magazines about gardening. Potter tucks his wand away and goes back to his own work. Draco closes the cupboard.

“Goodnight,” he says as he passes by the table on his way to the stairs.

“Goodnight,” Potter says distractedly, flipping over a page in his file.

Draco goes upstairs and uses the toilet, washes his hands and his face and brushes his teeth, then goes into his room and changes into his pyjamas, turns out the lights, and gets into bed.

And suddenly feels wide awake.

Even though Draco has the smaller of the two bedrooms, it still feels cavernous as he stretches out in his bed later that night. He’s not used to sleeping in a bed without curtains, and for the last few years, he’s been sleeping in his little alcove.

The soft rumble of a car engine approaches, and the shadows shift across the room, sliding up one wall and over the ceiling and back down again as it passes by, the rumble of its engine fading again into nothing. Draco pulls the blankets up over his shoulder and rolls onto his side. The heat comes on in a soft murmur, and something in the wall settles with a _clunk_ that’s shockingly loud in the night.

Eventually he hears the stairs creak as Potter comes up. He crosses the hall, hesitates outside Draco’s door, then goes into the bathroom. Sound carries shockingly well in the house, and Draco suffers a hot wave of inexplicable embarrassment at the sound of Potter peeing, even though he spent years in a dormitory and this is nothing he hasn’t heard a thousand times before. But it seems different in this quiet dark house with just the two of them in it. The toilet flushes a minute later, then there’s the sound of the water running, and Potter brushing his teeth, and then the water running again as he rinses and spits. The door opens, the light clicks off, and Potter’s footsteps retreat back down the hall. The door to his room opens and closes, and everything is quiet again.

Draco exhales the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and hears a soft creak. The house settling? Potter getting into bed? Draco listens, but it doesn’t come again.

He settles in, tucks his blankets more firmly around his shoulders, and shuts his eyes.

* * * * *

Draco doesn’t dream that night, but he wakes slowly, lingering in that soft, hazy space between sleep and waking. Everything is warm and dark and there’s the sound of crows softly cawing. Draco blinks his eyes open, squinting against the bright morning sunshine streaming in through his window.

There are three crows out there, perched on the bare branches and silhouetted against the clear blue sky. They watch him with glittering black eyes. One of them hops and flutters to a lower branch for an easier view. Another ruffles its feathers, resettling its wings against its body, and caws again.

Draco sighs and selects his clothes for the day, then opens his door and peeks out into the hall. The bathroom door stands open and the lights are off. Potter’s door is still shut, so Draco slips out into the hall and goes into the bathroom to get ready first.

The routine is familiar, even if the room is not. There’s more space here than in his tiny bathroom at home, and it’s too bright, with the strange Muggle lights gleaming coldly off the white tile. Draco showers quickly, and then contemplates breakfast as he shaves and brushes his teeth. Eggs, he decides. This feels like a morning for eggs.

Draco dresses in some of his new Muggle clothes, and wonders whether Potter will expect them to sit down to breakfast together. They had dinner together last night, but friends share dinner. Even acquaintances share dinner. Breakfast feels a bit more, well. Intimate isn’t quite the word Draco’s looking for here, but it’s not all that far off.

Distracted by his thoughts, he nearly runs straight into Potter, who’s just coming out of his own bedroom, yawning broadly. He’s barefoot and wearing a pair of faded plaid pyjama bottoms and a shirt so old it’s been worn nearly-transparent, and he’s got faint pillow creases on one cheek and the most hilariously bad case of bedhead Draco’s ever seen. He hadn’t been aware that Potter’s hair could look worse than it normally does, but apparently it can. It’s flat on one side and sticking straight up at the back.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he mumbles through a poorly-stifled yawn, then shuffles into the bathroom and shuts the door.

The click of the lock engaging startles Draco from his staring. He’d meant to ask Potter about breakfast, hadn’t he? He takes a step toward the door, but then the shower starts up in a rattle-clanking of pipes, and Draco turns away. He’ll make extra, just in case.

Draco nearly has breakfast finished when Potter comes into the kitchen looking decidedly more awake. He’s dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a cream-coloured jumper, and his hair is damp and curling a little at the ends as it dries. He heads over to the refrigerator and pulls open the door before he catches sight of the table where Draco’s laid out place settings for two.

“Are you…” Potter begins, letting the refrigerator door fall shut. “Malfoy, are you making me breakfast?”

“If you’re hungry,” Draco says, carefully buttering a slice of toast. “It’s just as easy to cook for two as it is to cook for one. It’s ready, if you would like to serve yourself?”

“Sure, thanks,” Potter says. “Really, this all looks great. Usually I just have toast so this is really, really great.”

He takes one of the plates from the table and begins to fill it, piling up scrambled eggs and bacon and fried tomatoes. Draco hands Potter two slices of toast, and Potter puts his plate back on the table, then crosses the kitchen and takes a glass down from the cupboard and gets a carton from the refrigerator and pours. It’s shockingly orange, moreso than pumpkin juice, and Draco frowns at the carton as he finishes making up his own plate. Oranges?

Potter notices him staring and shakes the carton in his direction. “Do you want some?” he asks.

“No,” Draco says, then, belatedly, “Thank you.”

He pours himself a cup of tea instead, using his new green mug, and takes a seat at the table, and Potter joins him there a moment later.

“Oh,” says Potter around his first mouthful. He chews and swallows. “Malfoy, this is really good.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised about it,” Draco says mildly, and hides his small, pleased smile in a sip of tea. He’s beginning to see why so many people trip over themselves to do nice things for Potter. He just sounds so sincere in his thanks, his pleasure is readily apparent and shockingly genuine, and there’s this faint hint of surprise to it all, as if, despite all of the things he’s done for the world, he can’t quite believe that the world’s done something back.

“If I sound surprised about it, it’s only because every time I’ve tried to cook eggs, they come out rubbery and watery.” Potter scoops another forkful into his mouth. “Is it because you’re good at potions? Because that’d explain why I’m rubbish at both.”

“Merlin, no,” Draco says. “Brewing is a very exact art. Everything must be done in precisely the right way. There’s no room for approximations or estimates. And I like that about it. I prefer the rigid structure of it, and the challenge of trying to problem solve within a set of rigid constraints.” He shrugs. “But sometimes it’s nice to have a break. Cooking is a nice way to unwind, sometimes. Throwing in a pinch of salt won’t make the soup pot explode. It’s relaxing, to not have to think so hard for a while.”

“Huh,” says Potter, and turns his attention to his breakfast.

Draco’s not used to eating without the paper or a potions periodical to distract him, and Potter seems more inclined to push his breakfast into his face as fast as humanly possible than to make any sort of conversation. So Draco stares out the window. There’s a line of blackbirds strung along the top of the thick black wire that Potter told him is where the electricity comes from. As he watches, two more flutter up and join the rest.

They finish up breakfast and then do the washing up, falling back into their roles from the night before. Potter washes and Draco dries and puts away, carefully placing everything back into its proper place.

“I’ve already called for a cab for us. I hope you don’t mind,” Potter says as he wipes his hands dry on a tea towel. He glances up at the clock. “It should be here soon."

“Oh, I…” Draco trails off, looking toward the fireplace. “I’d assumed we’d travel by Floo.” Which is a silly thing to say, since the bloody thing’s not even connected to the Floo Network yet. They won’t be able to send anyone round to connect it until Thursday—and neither the Potter nor the Malfoy name could persuade them to come out any earlier—so he and Potter will have to work out alternative transportation in the meantime, regardless.

“We could, sometimes. But the neighbours will think it’s suspicious if we never seem to leave our house,” Potter points out.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to argue that how would the neighbours notice? Then he thinks of Dorothea, who spends her whole day glued to her front window, and promptly shuts his mouth again.

“The cab’s just for today,” Potter continues. “I’ll be bringing my motorcycle over tonight. I could give you a lift into London starting next week, if you’d like. We leave for work at about the same time. You could come with me to the Ministry and then Floo over to your shop.” He shrugs. “Save on cab fare.”

Draco stares at him. He hadn’t known that Potter even owned a motorcycle.

“I mean,” Potter says a bit awkwardly. “If you want. You don’t have to. It is a motorcycle and there’s not a lot of space. We’d have to get, erm. Cosy.”

“No, no,” Draco says quickly. “It’s fine. We’re meant to be dating. We shouldn’t have any problem getting… cosy.”

“Er, right,” Potter says. “That’s a good point. But, you know, I know we aren’t, and if you’re not comfortable…”

Merlin, this is ridiculous. He’d known it’d been a bad idea to tell Potter he’d never kissed anyone as soon as the words had left his mouth. Draco’s never understood why some people think that whether or not he’s stuck his cock in another person has got even the least bit of _anything_ to do with how strong or weak he is. And now Potter obviously thinks Draco’s some sort of blushing virgin. Which, that’s half-true, but it doesn’t mean he needs to be handled as if he’s something frail and delicate, because he’s bloody well _not_ , and it irritates him that Potter seems to think he is.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco says. “I’m not about to, to _swoon_ or whatever it is you think will happen if you so much as touch me.”

Potter snorts. “I know you better than to think that,” he says. “You’d hex me senseless before you’d swoon.”

Which is true enough that Draco’s willing to let this go.

“So, how long have you had a motorcycle?” Draco asks. It’s not much, as far as olive branches go. But it’s something.

“Years,” Potter says as they put on their coats. He gathers up a stack of files and tucks them into a bag. “But it’s taken me a while to get it working properly. And I only got it working again and learnt how to ride it a few months ago.” He pats his pockets, then looks around.

“That’s nice,” Draco says and Potter spins in a slow circle. “Are you quite all right?”

“Keys,” says Potter and walks into the living room. A moment later he exclaims, “Ah-ha!” and snatches up a ring of keys from the coffee table.

He opens up the front door, then bows low from the waist, sweeping one hand out in a grand gesture for Draco to precede him.

“Arsehole,” Draco mutters as he passes him, and Potter snickers.

Draco steps outside, and the blackbirds take flight.

* * * * *

“Potter,” Draco calls from where he’s waiting beside the door. “We are going to be late.”

“We’re fine,” Potter shouts back at him from upstairs. Something falls to the ground with a heavy thump, and Draco bites back a sigh.

“You told me we had to be there at five,” he says loudly after a moment.

“I said they’d expect us over at five-ish,” Potter replies. Upstairs, something scrapes across the floor.

Draco takes a deep breath and wishes for patience. “And it is now five minutes past _five-ish_ and we are still here.” There’s another loud thud. “What on earth are you even doing up there?”

Potter’s head pops around the corner. “Can’t find my keys,” he says. “Can you check the kitchen for me?”

And then he’s gone before Draco can ask why Potter thinks his keys might be in the kitchen, of all places. But he obligingly checks, and doesn’t see them.

“They’re not down here,” he calls, debating whether to try and an _Accio_ them. But he doesn’t have a clear mental picture of what they look like, and sometimes Summoning Spells go awry in unpredictable ways when used without a clear line of sight, or at least a precise location.

“Living room?” Potter asks hopefully, and Draco sighs but goes to check there too.

He’s digging around beneath the cushions on the sofa when he hears Potter clattering down the stairs. “Found them,” he says and flashes them at Draco, keyring looped over his index finger. He snaps his hand closed around them with a muffled clink. “You ready? C’mon, we’re running late.”

Draco shoves the cushion back into place and gives it a slap, because it’s either the cushion or Potter’s stupid face.

He follows Potter out onto the front step, waits as Potter locks up, and then they walk around the side of the house together and Potter unlocks the dilapidated little shed and wheels out his motorbike. It’s a huge thing, all glossy black metal and glistening chrome. Potter’s already grinning, looking enormously proud of it, and Draco can’t quite blame him. He reaches out a hand, brushing his fingertips along the smooth metal side, and catches a hint of magic.

Frowning, he presses his hand flat against it, the metal cold beneath his palm and splayed fingers, and there it is again, a crackle of magic that feels both intimidating and exhilarating all at once. He snatches his hand away.

“This is enchanted!” he hisses at Potter.

“Of course it is,” Potter tells him. “You didn’t think we were going to drive all the way to Devon, did you? It’ll be much quicker to fly.”

“Fly?” Draco repeats. “You can’t be serious! We can’t do that!”

“Well it’s not as if we’ll be flying it to work every morning!” Potter says. “It’s just for today. We’ll get out of the city and then when no-one’s around…” He trails off and makes a swooping motion with one hand, and Draco’s stomach swoops right along with it.

“No,” he says.

“Come on, Malfoy. You can’t tell me you’re scared of flying,” Potter says.

“You know I’m bloody well not,” Draco snaps. “If you want to fly, I’ll go and get my broom.” That’s nice and safe, not like this infernal _contraption_.

“Trust me, Malfoy,” Potter says with that mischievous grin of his. “This is _much_ more fun.”

Draco shakes his head and sighs, and already knows he’s going to give in. “You know, for someone who said we shouldn’t keep _items of a certain nature_ around, you certainly seem to have brought a lot of them,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.

Potter shrugs. “It’s just the bike.”

“And the mugs.”

“And the mugs,” Potter allows with another shrug.

“And the drinks the first night.”

“And the drinks,” Potter echoes.

“Tell me something,” Draco says. “Do you get some sort of thrill from breaking rules? Because you seem to have quite a lot of trouble following them.”

Potter shrugs again, but doesn’t deny it. And that’s fair enough, Draco supposes. If Potter really believed in following the rules, he wouldn’t be helping Draco, and Draco would be on a Creature Registry.

He sighs. “Fine.”

Potter slaps him on the shoulder, grinning, as he passes by to go back into the shed. “You won’t regret it,” he says.

A moment later he reemerges with two shiny black helmets. He hands one to Draco and then explains briefly about how to lean so they keep their balance going around corners. He explains that it’s important to keep the helmet on and fastened at all times, both to appease the Muggles and because it’s been enchanted with Protection Charms that will keep him safe in case of a crash.

“Not that I plan on us crashing,” Potter assures him. “But you never know what other people might do.” He jams his helmet onto his head.

It takes some fumbling, but Draco gets his on as well and manages to fasten the straps beneath his chin. He feels the Protective Charms sweep over his body, and then it’s time to go.

As much as Draco had insisted he’d be fine with this, he’s still nervous as he mounts the bike and then scoots as far back as he can manage on the narrow leather seat. Potter hops aboard and, oh. He’s right there. This is definitely cosy.

Potter starts the motorcycle, and the engine roars to life, the big rough sound of it tearing through the quiet morning. Potter half-turns and says something to him, but Draco can’t quite make it out. Potter repeats himself, and Draco shakes his head. Then Potter reaches back and grabs him by the knees and hauls him forward, so his inner thighs are snug around the sides of Potter’s arse. Then Potter takes Draco’s hands and places them forcefully around his sides, gives them a little pat and then lets go.

Draco follows the unspoken instruction and keeps his hands there, gingerly touching Potter’s sides, until Potter does something with his wrist and his foot and the motorcycle lurches forward. Draco abruptly tightens his hold on Potter, practically hugging him. Their helmets clack together and he can feel Potter laugh. Then they’re jouncing over the grass, clearing the kerb with a jolt, and Potter swings them out onto the street and puts on a burst of speed. The roaring engine crescendos, and Draco lets out a startled whoop of exhilaration.

And all right, yeah, maybe Potter was right. This is much more fun than a broom, and they haven’t even left the ground yet.

It’s slow going at first, once they turn off their quiet residential street and get caught up in traffic on the main road. Potter steers them confidently between the other cars, which look big and intimidating from this close up. Eventually, they make their way out of the city, and Potter finds them an open stretch of road with no-one around. He gives Draco’s hand a pat, and Draco tightens his hold, and then the engine roars and they’re climbing steeply into the sky. Draco’s stomach swoops and feels like it’s floating for a moment, and his heart pounds, breath caught in his chest. His fingers curl hard into the soft wool of Potter’s coat, and his thighs clamp around Potter’s hips.

And all right, yeah. This is definitely more fun than a broom. Draco wonders whether he can convince Potter to teach him how to drive.

The adrenaline rush wears off after a little while in the air, but not the thrill. Potter’s taken them up over the clouds so they can’t be seen from below—apparently the motorcycle doesn’t have any sort of protection against that, and Draco makes a mental note to talk to Potter about the possibility of adding in Notice-Me-Not Charms to its enchantments—and up here it’s peaceful, if a little lonely. There’s the blue sky above and the smooth clouds stretching below. And in between, just him and Potter, the rush of the wind and the rumble of the motorbike.

After a while, Potter begins to take them down again. They dip into the clouds, and for long seconds everything is damp and grey, and then they burst through the other side and Draco spots a single building in the centre of a large clearing. Sure enough, Potter heads straight forward, circling around before he finds a good place to bring them down. Draco tightens his hold around Potter’s waist, and there’s a sudden jolt as the wheels touch down.

Potter drives them up near the house slowly, the bike bumping over the grass, and steers them to a stop beneath a broad oak tree before he turns off the engine. The sudden absence of sound is startling. A set of windchimes hanging from the front porch of the Burrow tinkle softly, and off in the distance a songbird twitters out as Potter balances the motorcycle with one foot while he hooks the other around the kickstand and settles the bike’s weight onto it. Then he hops off, and Draco clambers off after him and removes his helmet. 

Potter takes his off as well and balances it against his hip, grinning broadly at Draco like they’ve just shared some grand adventure. “So?” he asks. “What’d you think?”

“I think it’s a shame we won’t be able to fly to work every morning,” Draco tells him. He’s still feeling the excitement of their trip, weak-kneed and a little bit giddy from the thrill of it.

Potter laughs, a big, happy sound, and he gives Draco another grin as he leads the way up to the front porch. The worn wooden steps creak as they climb them, their footfalls echoing hollowly on the sagging wood porch. Potter lets himself in without knocking, and Draco follows him inside.

Despite Draco’s fears of a filthy hovel, the Burrow turns out to be quite nice. It’s a little run-down, parts of it a little ramshackle or a bit outdated, but it’s clean and cosy.

It’s also extremely bloody _loud_.

There’s a squalling baby and two people shouting at each other from the next room, and the wireless is blaring as loud as it will go. Footsteps thunder overhead, and then the sound of smashing glass followed by a bellowed, “ _Reparo_!”

The motorcycle’s thundering engine had absolutely _nothing_ on the Weasley household. Draco very nearly dives straight back out the door. The only thing that stops him is he’s got no idea how to operate the motorcycle so he can’t make a full escape.

“Come on,” Potter says. He drops his helmet beside the door, then takes Draco’s and sets it down too. “We should go say hi to Molly first.” 

Draco trails along after Potter as they pass through the living room, where Weasley is laughing as his older sibling, the prissy one Draco vaguely remembers from Hogwarts, is having a very enthusiastic disagreement with the remaining twin. This disagreement involves them quoting something long and incredibly technical while the other one expresses his emphatic dissent by Conjuring little paper hummingbirds and sending them across the room to peck at his brother’s head. Granger is sitting on the end of the sofa with a large ball of yellow wool and a couple of needles in her hand, knitting something big and lumpy, and she keeps trying to interject her disagreement into the sheer wall of words that the older Weasley is jabbering out, because of course she’s got an opinion she needs to share. Something thumps loudly from the next floor up, the baby keeps crying, and in the middle of it all, Arthur Weasley very calmly turns to the next page of his newspaper.

“Come on,” Potter says, gentle and insistent. He puts a firm hand on the small of Draco’s back and gives him a little push. “It’s better in the kitchen.”

Draco lets himself be pushed along, through the living room, past the long dining room table set for nearly a dozen, and into the kitchen where the chaos is more controlled: pots bubbling and steaming, a knife chopping vegetables, a stiff brush scouring a pan in the sink, a stack of potatoes peeling themselves on the counter, and the middle of it all, Molly Weasley with her wand in hand, orchestrating it all every bit as skillfully as a conductor leading a symphony.

“Hi, Molly,” Potter says, ducking underneath a stream of diced potatoes that go flying by overhead to deposit themselves into a pot of boiling water. He bends down for her to peck a kiss onto his cheek, then straightens up and beckons Draco forward. “You remember Draco Malfoy?”

Draco steps forward. “Hello, Mrs Weasley,” he says politely. She’s got both her hands occupied, so he doesn’t offer his.

“Oh, thank Merlin, Harry,” Molly says wryly, sparing him a glance. “You’ve brought me someone who’s not shouting.”

She gives Draco a long-suffering look as from the next room Granger can be heard shrilly interjecting, “But according to Clause 73 of—George, will you _stop that_ , we are trying to have a serious discussion!”

“Make yourself at home, dear. Dinner’s in thirty minutes,” she says. She flicks her wand, and the heap of potato peelings on the counter flies into the bin. “Would you like a drink? There’s water, pumpkin juice. Wine, if you fancy something a bit stronger. I think George brought over some Butterbeers, but,” She pauses and makes a grim face, “I’m not sure I’d trust them. He’s been _experimenting_ again.”

And Draco blinks, because here he’s been bracing himself for outright rejection, and Molly Weasley is offering him drinks.

“I’m having wine,” Potter says. “Can I get you a glass, too?”

“Please,” Draco says, a bit desperately.

Potter squeezes past Molly and fetches a couple of glasses, then hands them off to Draco while he rummages through a drawer in search of a corkscrew.

Loud footsteps come thundering down the stairs, and then a dark-skinned young woman Draco recognises as one of the Gryffindor Chasers comes skidding into view. Draco had never bothered to match names to faces with the three of them because they tended to move around as a single unit both on and off the pitch, but this is the one who wore the number nine on her Quidditch robes.

“Hey Molly—” she begins, before she catches sight of Harry and breaks into a beaming smile. “Harry!” She ducks back out of the room and hollers, “Oi, Gin! Harry’s here!”

“Angelina!” someone calls from the living room. “Get in here and help me tell Percy he’s wrong!”

“He’s not _entirely_ wrong,” Granger says insistently. “He’s just misinterpreting several key facts—”

“I am _not_!”

“—and underestimating the impact of—”

“ANGELINA!”

“For Merlin’s sake, George!” she huffs, turning. “I’M RIGHT HERE.”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Molly grumbles to herself as Angelina hurries off. “We’re not on a Quidditch pitch, there’s no reason for anyone to be shouting. It’s as if no-one who lives here knows the meaning of the words _inside voice_.”

Draco’s not sure what expression his face makes at that because the _sheer hypocrisy_ of that statement, good Merlin. Draco remembers those Howlers she used to send. But whatever it is is enough to make Potter elbow him sharply.

And then there’s three blissful seconds of relative calm before Ginny comes barrelling around the corner.

“Harry!” she shouts, and launches herself at him.

He catches her in a hug and they embrace as if they haven’t seen each other in years, while Draco awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s not certain how he should be reacting, to see his supposed-boyfriend embracing his ex-girlfriend with such enthusiasm. Should he act jealous? No, he and Potter just moved in together, surely that means he ought to be secure in his relationship.

He settles for leaning against Potter’s side as soon as Ginny steps back from him. Potter leans back and slides his arm around Draco’s waist.

“Hey, Gin,” Potter says. “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” she says, taking a quick step back as Molly pushes past to go check something in the oven. “Did you catch the match last night?”

Potter shakes his head. “No, I didn’t get a chance.”

“That’s a shame. The Cannons got slaughtered,” Ginny tells him with a big grin.

And Draco has no idea how Weasley heard that over the rest of the ruckus, but suddenly he’s right there in the doorway, loudly insisting, “Because those referees were blind! They didn’t make one correct call for the entire bloody game!”

“Here we go,” Potter mutters.

“The only bad call anyone’s made is letting the Cannons even stay in the League,” Ginny tells Weasley.

“Ginny, don’t provoke your brother,” Molly says distractedly, closing the oven door again and turning to the sink.

“Just because they’ve had a string of bad luck—”

“I mean, just look at Kendrick,” Ginny says. “He’s hopeless. It’s actually painful for me to watch him fly.”

“Kendrick is the best flier on the team!” Weasley insists.

“Which is probably why they lose. Kendrick couldn’t fly his way out of a wet paper sack,” Draco says before he can stop himself.

Ginny cackles, and Weasley turns on him. “You take that back!”

“Sorry, Ron,” Potter says, mercifully drawing Weasley’s attention onto himself. “It’s true. It’s a wonder the rest of them even know which end of the broom to hold.”

“You take that back!” Weasley repeats, louder, and Ginny whoops with laughter.

Weasley takes a half-hearted swing in her direction, and she ducks it and slaps back at him.

“That’s it! Out of my kitchen or I’m putting you to work!” Molly shouts at them, and Draco gets swept up in the mad scramble for the door.

Back in the living room, Granger is now gesturing vigorously with her knitting, and Percy is slinging _Incendio_ s around the room, making the few remaining paper birds burst into little puffs of smoke and ash, and trying to talk over Granger. Which is an exercise in futility if Draco’s ever seen one, but Percy’s certainly giving it his all. Ginny and Weasley are still bickering about the Cannons. At least the baby’s stopped crying.

Draco feels like an arsehole, standing there with a couple of empty wine glasses in his hands, but Potter’s not paying attention to him anymore. Draco shuffles over a couple of steps to the table and sets the empty glasses on the corner of it.

More footsteps come down the stairs, and then the oldest Weasley sibling—Bill, Draco remembers after a moment—appears with a strawberry-blonde baby in his arms. He looks around, and makes a beeline for Weasley.

“Here, take Victoire.” Bill pushes her into Weasley’s hands before he goes into the kitchen, and Weasley passes her to Ginny, who passes her to Potter, who breaks into an exaggeratedly-happy grin, and laughs delightedly when the baby copies his expression.

Potter seems entirely comfortable holding her, and Draco is impressed. He’s never been this close to a baby before, and it’s more terrifying than he thought it’d be. She’s clutching at the sleeve of Potter’s shirt with impossibly tiny fingers and staring at Draco over Potter’s shoulder with enormous blue eyes. And there’s Potter, laughing at something Weasley just said as if he’s not holding a tiny fragile helpless little person, and Draco looks at her hand again, with its wee little fingernails and tiny dimples where her knuckles ought to be, and how on earth can Potter be holding her so comfortably?

Potter sees Draco staring at him. “Do you want to hold her?” he offers.

Draco takes half a step back before he can stop himself. “No,” he says. “No, that’s fine. She seems quite comfortable where she is.”

He gets the distinct impression that his fear of Victoire shows and Potter’s trying not to laugh at him, but he doesn’t say anything. More footsteps, and then Fleur sweeps into the room, looks around, and spots them.

“‘Arry!” she says, coming up to kiss his cheek. She strokes a hand over Victoire’s head, smoothing down the flyaway curls. “We missed you last week.”

“Hi, Fleur. Yeah, I was busy with work stuff,” Potter says, barely glancing up at her. Victoire is clutching at his thumb with her whole hand, and Potter is making her arm dance.

“Ah, Malfoy!” Fleur exclaims, turning to draco. “Comment allez-vous?”

“He doesn’t speak French,” Harry says, looking highly amused.

Fleur blinks, then peers thoughtfully up at Draco. “Oh. I am not sure why I thought you did.”

“Happens a lot,” Potter says, leaning down and bumping his nose against Victoire’s, and she lets out an ear-splitting shriek of glee, and Potter laughs and bounces her on his hip.

“It’s fine,” Draco says. It’s not until now that it really hits him that, aside from Molly, all of the other Weasleys seem to be tolerating his presence by ignoring him entirely. Which he supposes is better than being rejected outright, but it makes him feel like a tremendous imposition.

Potter’s still distracted by the baby, so Draco has to tug on his sleeve to get his attention.

“Where’s the toilet?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh. Down the hall, last door on the left,” Potter says, nodding across the room.

Draco crosses the room and goes down the hall. He feels better the moment he’s out of sight, but doesn’t fully relax until he’s got the door of the loo closed and locked behind him. He opens up the window for a bit of fresh air, and runs warm water over his hands. Then he washes his hands, dries them, and looks himself in the small mirror hung over the sink.

“This is fine,” he breathes, barely giving the words any sound. “They don’t have to like you.”

Because they don’t. It doesn’t matter, and Draco doesn’t care. All that matters is they accept the ruse of him dating Potter. Which they have. And if they never like him? Well, what does he care? As soon as he and Potter work out how to break this curse, Draco will never have to set foot in this house again.

He gives his reflection a nod, then refreshes the Glamour that’s hiding the dark circles beneath his eyes and giving a bit of colour to his gaunt complexion, then shuts the window and unlocks the door.

And nearly jumps out of his skin when he swings it open and Fleur is standing right there.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping quickly out of the way so she can go inside.

But she moves to block him from going down the hall. “I was waiting for you,” she says with a smile. “I think we ‘ave quite a bit in common.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Ze Weasleys are… How shall I say?” She pauses, then says wryly, “Zey are not ze easiest family to join.”

“But I’m not trying to join them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “You are in love with ‘Arry, and zis is ‘Arry’s family.” She shrugs, as if it’s that simple.

Except it’s not that simple, it’s really not.

“It’s fine,” he says awkwardly after a moment, because it’s not as if he can explain any of the complexities to her.

“It is not fine,” Fleur says. “It was difficult at first with Bill. Zey all think zat no-one can care for one of zeir own as much as zey care for each other. Zat you must somehow _prove_ yourself, which is ridiculous! You love ‘Arry and he ‘as chosen to be with you, and zat should be enough.” She shakes her head. “Zey all mean well, but it is difficult. I understand what it is like to be ze outsider.”

She’s starting to sound quite indignant on his behalf, and Draco gets the idea that this is a very touchy subject for her, for all that it must have happened years ago.

“So,” she goes on. “I will stay by you, and we will show zem all just how charming you can be” She gives him another smile. “Yes?”

And what choice does Draco have but to agree to her plan?

“All right,” he says.

“Fantastic,” Fleur says, and loops her arm through his own as they go back out into the living room.

True to her word, Fleur stays close by his side throughout the rest of the evening. She sits on his other side at the table, and subtly draws others into conversation with him. And by the time they’re getting ready to leave, Draco’s made progress. He spoke for a while with Percy about Ministry politics, and with Bill about his work at Gringotts, and Molly about her herb garden and his plans for his own, and with Granger for a bit about her plans for P.A.W.S. And Fleur had smiled encouragingly and eased herself out of the conversation each time, and Potter had looked pleased to see everyone getting along so well.

Molly sends them off with a hug for Potter and a smile for Draco and a big basket of leftovers. Potter’s rambling on about the thick slices of lemon cake Molly’s included in their basket, since they’d both been too full to try a slice after dinner, and despite the exhaustion dragging at him, being out here in the quiet and the darkness and the open air makes him feel light and free. The night is clear and cold and a thousand stars shine in brilliant twinkling pinpricks of light, and in a few minutes Draco will be up there among them.

He breathes in deep, lets it out slow. And for these few moments, everything feels all right.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, Draco ignores the ache in his back for as long as he’s able. He ignores it as he closes up his shop and as Potter drives them home. He ignores it as he makes dinner for himself and Potter, and he ignores it as they eat together.

But by the time they finish, it’s become too insistent to ignore any longer, unless he plans to transform right here at the dining table.

“Would you mind doing the washing up on your own tonight?” Draco asks. He stands and stretches, but the ache has settled deep into his back and no amount of stretching will ease it.

“Is it nearly time?” Potter asks grimly. 

“I think so,” Draco says. “Sorry, I thought I’d be able to help clean up.”

Potter barks out a surprised laugh. “Are you serious? It’s fine, Malfoy, you’ve got a really good excuse for not helping to clean up.” He stands up, picking up both their plates. “Go on, I’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” Draco says, and heads upstairs.

Up in his room, Draco runs through a mental list of preparations. He hadn’t bothered to make excuses for his absence this time. He’ll be back in time to attend dinner at the Burrow on Sunday, and Narcissa had stopped by the shop yesterday so she almost certainly won’t be by again in the next couple of days. The full moon this month has the unfortunate timing to fall just before Passover begins and Zelda’s gone to spend it with her grandmother in France, whom Draco knows she doesn’t get to see nearly as often as she’d like since she’s finished school and come back to England. Draco really hates to close up the shop, but Zelda hasn’t hired a new employee yet so there’s nothing to be done for it.

Earlier today, he and Potter cast the necessary charms and spells around their house to keep Draco from being noticed by any of the neighbours as he flies off. He’s opened up the window so he doesn’t break it. He’s stocked their bathroom with every healing potion he might possibly need, along with a thick roll of bandages. He’s got his Portkey set to bring him safely back here and tied securely around his wrist, even though he’s hopeful he won’t actually need it this month.

Potter had charmed another bracelet with every Tracking Spell he could think of, and as an Auror he’d known some that even Draco hadn’t heard of before. It’d taken some work to enchant the protective cloths so that the Tracking Charms would be able to give off their signatures to allow Potter to find him, but still protect the bracelet from any damaging magics from the transformation itself.

Draco’s got that one tied securely around his other wrist.

He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. The ache is getting worse. He doesn’t have long at all, now. He takes off his cardigan, folds it up and puts it on the bed. Unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, pulls it off and folds it up too. Then his undershirt. His shoes come off and he sets them in front of his wardrobe. He takes off his socks.

He’s reaching for the button of his trousers when Potter knocks lightly at the door.

Sighing to himself, Draco steps across the room and opens it. “Yes?”

“I was thinking,” Potter says. He’s got his wand in hand. “The transformation looked terribly painful last time. And I know that magic won’t work on you once you’ve transformed, but I was thinking that it might work before it starts.”

“I don’t have long, Potter. What are you getting at?”

“Well, I don’t think I can stop it from happening, but I think we can keep you from being aware of it or from remembering it afterward.”

“Are you planning to _Obliviate_ me?” Draco asks.

Potter shakes his head. “I reckon a strong Confundus Charm would do it.” He rushes to reassure Draco, “I’ll be right here the whole time. I’ll counter the spell right away if it looks like it’s going wrong.”

He looks very serious. Very earnest. As if it’s very important to him to spare Draco the horror of this, even though it’ll mean witnessing it himself.

“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” Draco says slowly. He spreads his arms a little. “Well, go on, then.”

“Er,” Potter says. His eyes flick downward. “Are you going to take off your trousers?”

Draco blinks at him. “What?”

“I mean, you can leave them on, if you want? But last time you tore them off. And we didn’t buy that many pairs of Muggle ones, so we’d have to go replace them.”

Draco can feel his cheeks going pink. He’d woken up naked last time, and he’d hoped that he’d lost his trousers after he’d left Potter’s home. No such luck, apparently.

“I didn’t see anything,” Potter says quickly, and he’s blushing a little bit too. “I was mostly distracted by the wings. And the, erm. Screaming.” He pauses, chews at his lower lip. “And the blood. There was… a lot going on.”

“Right,” Draco says. “Could you, ah, would you mind…?” He gestures, circling one finger through the air.

“Right, yeah. Sure,” Potter says, and obligingly turns around.

Draco strips off his trousers and pants, folds them up and puts them with his clothing, then takes the blanket from the bed and wraps it around himself.

“All right,” he says, and Potter turns back.

“Do you want to lie down?” he asks. “ _Confundo_ can be a bit unpredictable, and I’m going to be casting it strong.”

“All right,” Draco says again, and climbs up onto the bed, stretching out on his stomach. He closes his eyes. “Potter?”

“Yeah?”

Draco swallows. “Thank you.”

He can hear the smile in Potter’s voice as he replies, “Any time.”

The tip of Potter’s wand is cool when he touches it to Draco’s temple. “ _Confundo_ ,” Potter whispers. And it’s like sinking into a warm, thick fog that swirls around him. Only little peeks slip through. A flash of pain from his back. The soft duvet beneath him. For an instant, he could swear he feels gentle fingers stroking through his hair.

And then there’s nothing.

* * * * *

Potter didn’t find him.

The forest is cold and dim, barely illuminated by the silty grey predawn light. He can barely make out the dark feathered shape of a bird perched on a branch directly in front of him, so close he could reach out and touch.

Draco reaches up, and the bird takes flight. It launches itself from the branch and a sick jolt of pain detonates behind Draco’s ribs, so sharp and shocking that he nearly passes out again.

It’s not a branch.

It’s an arrow sticking out of his chest.

Fuck. Merlin, _fuck_. There’s an arrow in him. He’s been shot.

His first instinct is to get it out of him. There’s an arrow inside of him and it doesn’t belong there, and Draco wants it _out_. He grabs hold of the shaft with a clumsy hand, jostling it, and another jolt of pain slams through him.

He whimpers, his breath coming fast and shallow and every inhalation is agony. It hurts, _oh_ it hurts.

He’s hurt. He’s bleeding and he’s been shot, and with a startlingly unexpected clarity amid the wash of pain, Draco thinks that what he wants right now, more than anything else in the world, is for all of this to be someone else’s problem. He fumbles for his Portkey with blood-slippery fingers, yanks the protective cloth off, and activates it.

The world tilts, rushing around him, and Draco’s awash in agony. He hits the tile floor of the bathroom hard, unable to even attempt to catch himself. He thinks he screams. He’s not sure.

“Holy fuck!”

Draco blinks, looks up to see Potter standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Holy shit, fuck, Malfoy,” Potter says, dropping to his knees on the tile. One of his hands goes to Draco’s chest, sliding gently up around the wound. The shaft sticking out of Draco pokes up between his middle and index fingers. “That’s a fucking arrow. _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Draco rasps, and it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? That there’s an arrow sticking out of him? Ridiculous. It shouldn’t be in there. He reaches for it.

“Fuck,” Potter says again, slapping Draco’s hand away. He yanks a towel off its hook and drops it over Draco’s lap because, oh. Right. Naked.

“Hurts,” Draco gasps. “Can you…? Please.”

“Fuck,” Potter says a third time. “Christ. Okay, fuck. Here, turn over a bit more. Tuck your head down, shit, if I fuck this up…” He doesn’t say what’ll happen if he fucks up as he gropes his fingers along the back of Draco’s neck, jams his wand into the slight dip between two of his vertebrae, and casts a spell.

The pain drops to a vague echo of itself, and Draco’s body suddenly goes limp and sluggish.

“What’d you do?” he slurs out, rolling his eyes up to look at Potter. He can barely turn his head. One hand twitches when he tries to move it, flopping against the tile. He jerks his other arm, and manages to drape his hand over his abdomen and it feels like two separate people: someone else’s hand on his stomach, and someone else’s stomach beneath his hand.

“Oh thank god,” Potter says, sitting back on his heels. “Nerve blocking spell. I’ve only ever done that one in training. Too high up and it can cause permanent damage, but if you’re talking I’ve done it right. Shit.” He takes a deep breath. “Shit, I can’t get you through the Floo like this. I’m going to have to Apparate you to St Mungo’s.”

“No,” Draco says. He tries to shake his head. “No, I can’t go.”

“Malfoy—”

“I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“You have to,” Potter says. “I can’t do anything for you! I can’t help you, and if you don’t go then you’re going to die.”

Draco blinks up at him. Then he fumbles for the arrow’s shaft with numbed fingers, grabs hold and yanks it out.

“There,” Draco says. The arrow clatters to the floor, and the blood that wells up from the puncture is thick and dark, and Potter swears and snatches a hand towel and presses down on it. “Now you’ve got to. I’ll die if you don’t.”

“Oh my god,” Potter says, high and a little panicked, and that makes Draco second-guess himself because he’s never heard Harry sound panicked about anything. “Malfoy, _what the fuck_.”

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he shouldn’t have done this. Maybe he should have let Potter take him to St Mungo’s. Maybe he shouldn’t have got himself shot with a fucking arrow.

Draco coughs, and little spots of red fleck the white tiles.

“You do realise I’m an Auror, not a Healer?” Potter goes on. His eyes are big behind his glasses, and very green. Such nice eyes. “I only know enough Healing spells to stabilise someone in the field until they can get seen to by someone who _actually knows what the fuck they’re doing_.” He grabs Draco’s hands and presses them over the towel. Red is beginning to blossom through the soft white cloth. “Hold that there.”

It’s a bit touch-and-go for a while. Potter has to leave the room, and Draco can hear him in the library, rummaging frantically through the boxes he’s yet to unpack, searching for some of his old textbooks from Auror training. Draco bleeds quietly onto their bathroom floor and waits for him to return. It’s hard to breathe, and his lungs rattle alarmingly. He coughs, and more blood flecks the tiles.

Potter comes back and flings himself to the floor again, slams an open book down beside him, and whips out his wand, casting spell after spell from the book. He keeps his place through the complicated spellwork by skimming his left index finger down the page line by line, and he’s smudging blood on the paper. He’s got blood on his wand, too. And on the knees of his pyjamas.

There’s a lot of blood. Draco closes his eyes.

But Harry Potter isn’t called the Saviour for nothing. He gets the puncture healed before he sees to Draco’s less pressing injuries—a cut over his ribs and the two big gashes on his back—and gets everything cleaned and bandaged. He makes sure Draco is drugged to the eyeballs on a strong pain potion before he releases the nerve blocker. With Potter’s help, Draco very gingerly sits up, and for several long minutes they sit together, half-propped against the bathtub and half-slouched against each other, breathing slowly and letting the adrenaline and panic fade away.

Draco begins to tremble, and Potter slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. Potter is warm and steady and safe. Potter saved him, and everything is all right.

For now, at least.

“It’s not just a curse,” Draco says, long minutes later when he feels able to speak again. Because now there’s only one thought circling through his head with a terrible, terrible clarity. “Potter, it’s not just a curse. Someone’s actively trying to kill me.”


	8. Chapter 8

Somehow, even with an arrow sticking out of him, it hadn’t quite seemed real until he’d said the words aloud just now.

_It’s not just a curse._

Draco’s gaze is drawn to the arrow lying on the floor by the sink. It’s made of dark wood and fletched with black feathers. The head is wickedly sharp black iron. Draco stares at it. That was in him. That was sunk deep inside him not ten minutes ago.

 _Someone is trying to kill him_.

And the worst of it is that he doesn’t know _why_. He hasn’t done anything to deserve it. He’s kept his head down and worked hard in his shop. He keeps to himself. He barely talks to anyone other than his parents and Zelda and several of his neighbours. He hasn’t hurt anyone. Why would someone want to kill him? Is it because of his actions during the War? But then why would anyone wait this long before they came after him for it? And why him, when there are others who did so much worse?

Draco’s not aware that his hands are shaking until Potter very carefully takes the nearer one and holds it still.

Like the rest of him, Potter’s hand is warm and steady, and his palm is a little bit sticky with Draco’s blood. It’s caked under his fingernails, too, making dark crescent moons under his nails. Potter’s thumb rubs against the side of Draco’s hand in slow, soothing strokes, and Draco keeps staring at the blood on Potter’s skin.

The sight of it only underscores how Draco is dragging Potter down, corrupting him by association. And Potter doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve any of this. 

“You didn’t come for me,” is what comes out of Draco’s mouth instead, because at his core he is still stupid and selfish. His hand won’t stop trembling and Potter sighs and presses it against his own thigh. The tips of Draco’s fingers touch the top of Potter’s kneecap, and his thigh is soft under Draco’s palm.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Potter presses down harder, his fingers curling around Draco’s. “I tried, I swear I tried. The Tracking Charms didn’t work. They all came apart as soon as you transformed.”

Draco looks down at his wrist where it’d slipped his mind entirely that he’d put the charmed bracelet. It’s gone, but the skin around his wrist is blistered. Exactly as it was when the cuff he’d charmed with Diagnostic Spells went bad.

“I don’t understand,” he says, still staring down at his blistered skin. “It should have worked. We protected it the exact same way we protected the Portkey.” And the Portkey was fine. This doesn’t make sense.

Potter shakes his head. “But the spells are inherently different, aren’t they? Shit, I should’ve thought of this. I think maybe it’s got to do with Active versus Passive magic. The Portkey’s unaffected by the magic in your transformation even though the spellwork’s laid in, it’s dormant…”

“But any sort of active spellwork will get corrupted by the Dark Magic in the transformation,” Draco finishes. “Which means no Tracking Spells.” Which means that every time this happens, he’s entirely on his own. And this is going to happen again. They couldn’t stop it from happening this time, and they won’t be able to stop it next time, either.

“Hey,” Potter says, squeezing Draco’s hand, then lifts it up and thumps it back down against his leg. “We’re going to figure this out. I’m an Auror, and a bloody good one. This is what I do. Okay? This is why you came to me. We’ll get through this.”

“But you don’t have to,” Draco says. “You tried to help me, and I appreciate that. But someone’s trying to kill me. I can’t ask you to endanger yourself like this.”

“I’m an Auror,” Potter says again. “If whoever’s after you comes after me, I’ll handle it. It won’t be the first time someone’s tried to kill me, and it probably won’t be the last. Okay? I said I’d help you, and I will. I can’t walk away now.”

His arm is still around Draco, Potter’s elbow propped up atop the side of the bathtub, his hand loosely curled around Draco’s bicep in a way that feels both exhausted and strangely possessive.

“Besides,” Potter goes on. “Whoever’s doing this has arranged it so that each month, you go to them. They’re not about to go to the trouble of coming after you when they’ve got you going to them.” His thumb rubs firmly against Draco’s hand, and he gives Draco a wry smile. “Besides, this person’s clearly got a flair for the dramatic. They’re not going to settle for something as easy as turning up here.”

Draco laughs a little, shaky and helpless. “At least it’s giving us time to figure out who’s doing this and how to make them stop.” 

“Exactly,” Potter says.

They sit in silence for a minute or two.

“Christ,” Potter says, half to himself. “I can’t believe someone actually shot you with a fucking arrow. What the _fuck_.”

“They must not just want me dead,” Draco says, hunching in on himself. “They must want me to suffer, first.”

Potter sighs and tugs Draco a little closer. “But you said it yourself. It gives us the time we need to figure out how to make it stop.”

Draco leans into him, equal parts guilty and grateful for the simple comfort Potter’s offering, and faintly surprised at himself for how eagerly he’s accepting it. Distantly, Draco thinks that this ought to feel awkward. He doesn’t have much physical contact with people, and never anything this prolonged. It happens very rarely and very briefly with his mother or, even more rarely and even more briefly, his father or Zelda. The last time he’d regularly been touched was all the way back at Hogwarts, at the beginning of his sixth year. He’d been dating Pansy, and she was constantly draping herself over him. Sometimes she’d urge him to lie down with his head in her lap, and she’d spend a while stroking his hair while Draco tried to keep from melting into her touch entirely.

Maybe that’s why this feels so nice, so reassuring, to have another body pressed warm and solid against his own. The skin of Potter’s arm is smooth and warm, the threadbare cotton of his tee-shirt is soft and worn. And Draco finds himself wishing that this were happening under different circumstances. If someone hadn’t just tried to murder him, and he hadn’t just nearly died, and if Potter were a different person, if he were someone who cared for Draco and for whom Draco cared for in turn. If Draco had some clothes on. 

Draco stiffens. Because, oh. He’s practically naked. And now that he’s not actively bleeding out or trying to stifle his panic from nearly bleeding out, his lack of clothing suddenly feels a lot more urgent.

“Is something wrong?” Potter asks, because of course he notices Draco’s sudden tension. How can he not, with Draco pressed right up against him like this? Merlin, how embarrassing.

“Nothing,” Draco says, shifting away from him a little, and Potter lets him go. He can feel himself blushing, and his whole side feels suddenly cold with the loss of Potter’s warmth pressed up against him. “It, ah. It just occurred to me how very naked I am right now.”

“Nonsense,” Potter says, laughing a little. He nudges Draco’s elbow with his own. “You’re wearing a bath towel and several very stylish bandages.”

“All the same…” Draco says, glancing at Potter. He seems amused by it, which is more of a comfort than Draco would’ve thought. “I suppose I should get cleaned up while the pain potion is still at full strength. Would you mind charming the bandages Impermeable so I can bathe?”

“Sure,” Potter says, and taps each one with his wand while muttering the spell. “Do you, erm. Do you need help bathing?”

“No,” Draco says, because he’s sure that Potter giving him a bath would be the only thing that could possibly make this whole affair even more humiliating for him. “No, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“All right,” Potter says, and then insists on turning on the water for Draco, checking with his hand to make sure it’s hot but not too hot. He helps Draco stand up and step into the tub, then takes the dirty towel Draco tosses over the shower curtain rod.

He can hear Potter bustling around out there while he lathers up and starts scrubbing himself down. Seven years of shared dormitory showers and communal showers post-Quidditch mean that Draco’s no stranger to having other people around him while he cleans up, and the sounds of Potter casting spells and bustling around, leaving and returning to the room several times, quickly fades into background noise.

“I’m done in here,” Potter says when Draco’s soaping himself up for the second time. “I’ll be waiting outside, okay?”

“All right,” Draco replies, scrubbing at a stubborn bloodstain in the crease of his elbow. “Thank you.”

There’s the quiet click of the door closing, and then he’s alone.

Draco rushes through the rest of his shower and turns off the water. Potter’s left a clean towel draped over the shower curtain rod for him, and he takes it down and tucks it around his waist before pulling back the curtain and stepping out.

Everything is clean, the tile floor sparkling and the bathmat clean and fluffy. Potter left Draco’s wand for him by the sink, along with set of pyjamas folded neatly on the vanity, and a jar of ointment for the blisters on Draco’s wrist. The handful of feathers Potter had peeled off Draco’s back are soaking in the sink, the water turned faintly pink as the dried blood begins to dissolve. The arrow’s in there, too, head down and hidden by the feathers. Draco touches the black feather fletching on it, then picks up the ointment and applies it to the irritated skin around his wrist. He casts several drying spells over himself, checks his bandages, then hangs his towel on its hook and dresses quickly.

True to his word, Potter’s waiting in the hallway for Draco. The sun is fully up by now, warm golden light spilling into the hall from the window over the stairs, and Potter leans against the wall just shy of it, his toes barely an inch from the rectangle of sunshine stretched over the floor. The floorboards are warm beneath Draco’s feet when he steps into it.

“Feeling all right?” Potter asks softly.

“Thanks to that pain potion, I’m not feeling much of anything at all,” Draco says. “Thank you. For helping me.”

Potter exhales shakily and shoves a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, I’m just glad I could help.”

Draco frowns, taking a good look at Potter. He seems worse now, paler and vaguely nauseated, and somehow smaller and less confident than he’d been while helping Draco. “Are you all right?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” Potter says. He slides his fingers up underneath his glasses and rubs at his eyes, then nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose from where he’d dislodged them. “It’s all catching up to me now, you know? I could use a cup of tea, actually, would you like one? Oh.” He pauses, frowning. “Do you think you’ll be up for a bit, or do you plan to go to sleep for a while?”

“I’d love a cuppa, thank you,” Draco says. “I think we need to talk about this and how it affects our plans.”

“Right,” Potter says. “Right, yeah. We really should. I just wasn’t sure how tired you’d be after your transformation. You could barely keep your eyes open before.”

“I’m less tired after it happens than before,” Draco says. He has no idea what happens to him for the entirety of the time he’s missing, but he’d guess that he spends a long stretch of it unconscious. It’s probably the best sleep he manages to have all month.

They go downstairs and Draco gingerly settles himself on the sofa with a knitted burgundy wool afghan draped over his lap. He still can’t feel his injuries, but there’s a sort of tightness to his chest that keeps him very cognizant of the fact that he’s hurt.

After a few minutes, Potter comes in with two mugs of tea. He passes the green mug to Draco and keeps the yellow one for himself as he settles on the other end of the sofa, his lower back pressed against the arm and his feet tucked up underneath him.

“So,” he says as Draco sips at his tea. “I think we need to come up with some contingency plans for what we should do if things go bad. And then we need to come up with a plan of attack for figuring out the best way to make certain that none of them actually happen.”

Draco nods and cups his hands around the mug of tea, letting the warmth seep into his fingers and palms. “All right. Well, let’s start off with the one that’s most likely to occur. What happens if I die?”

They go over all the possibilities one by one. What happens if Draco comes back with an injury too severe for Potter to Heal. What happens if Draco comes back injured and then dies here in the house. What happens if Draco never comes back at all. How long Potter should wait to look for him, when he should contact Draco’s parents and alert the authorities. What happens if he’s attacked here. Or at work. What happens if Potter is attacked, or injured, or killed.

And on and on and on.

Potter makes a list, writing each possibility out one by one, and notes for how they plan to handle it jotted down beneath. They agree to make each other their emergency contacts. They each write out their version of events, that Draco’s cursed and Potter’s helping him, just in case things go poorly enough that one of them is accused of hurting the other. Draco knows that accusation is likely to only go one way, but he doesn’t comment upon it and finishes writing his own chronicle of the events so far, then signs and dates it at the bottom.

When they finish, Potter collects all the papers and folds them up, and tucks them into his pocket until they can find somewhere safe to keep them.

It’s near lunchtime by this point, and Potter offers to make sandwiches for the two of them. While he’s busy in the kitchen, Draco goes up to his room. His bed is neatly made up, the bedclothes folded back invitingly, and a lump swells in Draco’s throat to think of Potter carefully making up Draco’s bed after he’d transformed and flown off. Shaking his head, he strips out of his pyjamas and checks the bandages for bleeding and, finding them clean, dresses in Muggle clothes, pulling on grey trousers and a black shirt and a green jumper.

Potter’s nearly done with the sandwiches, cutting the first one in half, when Draco returns to the kitchen.

“Would you mind cutting mine diagonally?” he asks. “Sorry. Triangles taste better than rectangles.”

Potter gives Draco a perplexed look over his shoulder. “All right, but you do realise that makes no—You’re dressed.”

“Well spotted,” Draco says, crossing the kitchen to the cupboard to take out a glass for water.

“Why?” Potter asks. He’s starting to look suspicious, like Draco’s trying to pull one over on him.

Which he needn’t, because Draco has no problem telling him, “Because I can’t very well go to work in my pyjamas.”

The incredulous look Potter gives him at that is almost comical, the butter knife dangling from his fingers as he gapes at Draco. “What? No! Malfoy, you nearly died. I don’t think you should even be out of bed, much less going to work.”

“I feel fine,” Draco insists, which is entirely true. The pain potion is still doing its job admirably, and Draco can’t quite suppress a touch of pride at that. He is quite good at brewing.

“You were _shot_ ,” Potter says, slowly, as if the fact he’d had an arrow through him might have somehow escaped Draco’s notice.

“I’m aware,” Draco says, just as slowly.

“See, I’m not sure you are,” Potter says, slapping the butter knife onto the counter. “Because if you were, then you would be resting up and focusing on healing.”

Draco huffs. “I’ll heal just as quickly whether I’m here or at my shop.”

“Malfoy—”

“ _Potter_ —”

“—I’ve got no idea what you think you’ve got to prove by rushing off—”

“—I’ve already had to close up for two days, I’m not trying to prove anything but—”

“—and that’s all the more reason why you ought to stay home, Zelda’s not there to help you and—”

“—I ran it just fine for well over a year without her, I’m sure I can manage for a single afternoon—”

“—I’m not saying you can’t handle your shop, I’m saying you were _shot_!” Potter glares at him. “Christ, you’re a stubborn arsehole!”

“Pot, kettle.” Draco glares back.

They stare at each other for long seconds. Then Potter breaks the stand-off by heaving a theatrically large sigh and flinging his hands up in the air.

“Fine,” he says. “But we’re not taking the motorcycle. I’m calling for a cab to drop us off at Diagon. I’ve got some things I need to take care of, so I’ll walk down with you before I go on.”

“Fine,” Draco says, even though he’s tempted to argue that he’s perfectly well enough for them to take Potter’s motorcycle. And he certainly doesn’t need to be escorted to his shop because he’s not _helpless_. But if he argues, then Potter will keep arguing, and he’s already going to be opening his shop late for the day, he doesn’t need to waste any more time with this pointless conversation.

Potter turns away and cuts into Draco’s sandwich viciously, then turns back and holds it out to him. “And here are your bloody triangles.”

“Thank you ever so kindly,” Draco says, rolling his eyes as he takes the plate over to the table where he pushes a stack of magazines and a partially-completed shopping list and Potter’s keys and a couple of pens to the side of the table. He takes a moment to stack everything neatly, then bites into his sandwich.

They eat in silence, and after they finish, Potter calls for a cab on one of the curious little rectangles that Muggles use to speak to each other, and then insists on doing the washing up by himself. Draco lingers at the table, browsing through a potions supply catalogue while Potter cleans up. When he finishes placing the last plate back into its cupboard, Draco gives his wand an idle flick, and there’s the gentle rattle of porcelain as everything resettles itself neatly.

“What was that?” Potter asks, drying his hands on a tea towel.

Draco marks the page he’s on and looks up. “What was what?”

“You just…” Potter swishes the tea towel toward the cupboards.

“Hm? Oh.” Draco returns his attention to the catalogue. “You always put them back crooked.”

“Does it really matter?”

Draco shrugs and flips a page. “This way they look nice.”

“The cupboards are all closed,” Potter points out. “Who’d even know?”

“I would,” Draco says. He flips the catalogue closed. “Are you done in here?”

“Yeah.” Potter stuffs the tea towel into the space between the oven door and its handle. “I’m going to go get dressed.

Draco waits until Potter leaves the room before he stands up and takes the tea towel, shakes it open from the crumpled wad Potter had left it in, and hangs it neatly over the handle so it’ll dry properly. Then he turns around and heads upstairs for his shoes, but stops short when he approaches the stairs.

“Potter,” he calls out. “Please come in here and confirm that I haven’t lost my mind.”

Potter appears at the top of the stairs, in the process of pulling a tee-shirt over his head. It knocks his glasses askew, and he nudges them straight, then tugs the hem of the shirt down. “What?”

Draco points to the blank stretch of wall where he could swear there used to be a large cupboard. “Didn’t there used to be a door there?”

“Oh, that,” Potter says and turns away, disappearing from view. “I sealed it off,” he calls down.

Frowning, Draco goes upstairs. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I didn’t want it there,” Potter says. His door is ajar, and Draco gets a glimpse of bare leg as he passes by to his own room.

“And why not? It’s perfectly useful storage space,” he says, raising his voice to be heard down the hall. He gathers up his things, his keys and his pocketwatch and his wallet with the paper Muggle money tucked inside, along with an identification card with Draco’s picture on it and a little card with his name and a long string of numbers in raised font across the front that Potter told him was worth a lot of money he could use ‘for emergencies’ should any arise. He puts on his shoes.

“I just—” Potter breaks off and Draco can hear his annoyed sigh from the hallway. “Can you leave this alone? I didn’t want it, so I got rid of it.”

“All right,” Draco says, stepping back out into the hall to find Potter waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He’s put on a pair of dark jeans and pulled on a soft grey jumper with an odd little hood and a big pocket sewn onto the belly, which he’s got his hands tucked into. “I won’t ask.”

“Thanks,” Potter says, starting down the stairs. He’s got a hole in the heel of his left sock.

“Do you own any socks that aren’t falling to bits?” Draco asks.

Potter gives him a glance over his shoulder. “What?”

“Your sock has a hole in it,” Draco says, following Potter down.

Potter pauses at the bottom of the stairs, balances on one foot and lifts the other to inspect it. “Oh.” He puts his foot down and crosses the living room to where he left his shoes by the door.

“You’re not going to change?” Draco asks as he pulls on his coat and does up the buttons

“Er. No?” Potter looks up from where he’s crouched, tying the laces of his trainers. “It’s just a little hole. I didn’t even notice til you pointed it out. It’s fine.” He finishes knotting the laces and stands up, then frowns and pats his pockets. “Keys,” he says.

“Oh good Merlin, not this again,” Draco grumbles.

“Sorry, shit, just a sec,” Potter says, going into the living room, and Draco can hear him searching around.

“They’re in the kitchen,” Draco says loudly. He folds his arms over his chest, then drops them back to his sides when his forearm presses against the bandage. “You left them on the table.”

Potter jogs across the hall and into the kitchen, and a second later exclaims, “Ah-ha!” as if he’s just discovered the secret to transforming lead into gold, and not merely found his keys after Draco bloody well just told him where they were.

“Got them,” Potter says, holding them up as triumphantly as he’d ever held up a Snitch, and Draco gives into the irrepressible urge to roll his eyes. “Ready?”

Draco stares at him, then shakes his head and opens the door.

He waits on the stoop while Potter grabs his jacket and follows him outside and locks up after them. The cab hasn’t arrived yet.

“Hello, there!” a voice calls out.

Draco looks up to see his neighbour waving at them over the low fence that separates their gardens. She’s got a baby propped on her hip and a stack of letters in her hand.

“Good afternoon,” Potter calls out politely.

“Good afternoon,” Draco echoes so as not to be rude, edging a little bit farther away so Potter’s closer to her.

“Where are you off to on such a lovely afternoon?” she asks brightly.

“Well, this one has to work,” Potter says, looping his arm through Draco’s and drawing him forward, and Draco forces a smile.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” the woman says with a smile. She readjusts the baby on her hip. “On such a beautiful Saturday.”

The cab arrives just then, thankfully sparing them from further conversation.

“I’ll see you later!” calls the woman, waving at them with her stack of post, and Potter waves back to her.

“Are you scared of talking to a Muggle or are you scared of the baby?” Potter murmurs in Draco’s ear as they head for the cab.

Both, actually, and about equally. But Draco just gives Potter a glare and climbs into the automobile. He gets the impression that Potter’s trying not to laugh at him as he climbs into the car and gives directions to the cabbie.

Draco turns and stares out the window and watches the world go by and tries to ignore the fact that he’s trapped in an enclosed space with a Muggle. He certainly doesn’t think about how that Muggle is in control of this contraption. He and Potter have quite literally put their lives into the hands of this strange man, and it seems that Draco’s the only one aware of it. Potter and the man are chattering away, about the weather and the traffic and a thousand other inane things like absolutely nothing’s wrong, and Draco wants both of them to shut up so he can get on with pretending that none of this is happening.

He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. Tomorrow, he doesn’t care how hard Potter fights him on it.

They’re taking the bloody motorcycle.

* * * * *

Draco will never, ever admit that Potter may have been right about him needing to rest. But, good Merlin was this a long day. Despite him only having the shop open for the afternoon, it’s one of the longest he’s had in quite a while. He can’t even blame it on his injuries, although he’s had to nip into the back twice to take more pain potions when his chest injury began to ache. He’s grateful that halfway through the afternoon, there’s a bit of a lull in the flow of customers, during which he locks the door and slips out the back to run a quick errand and give himself a short break.

But mostly it’s the customers that have made today difficult. It’s a mad rush from the moment he unlocks the door, and Draco thinks longingly of the quiet solace of his potions lab. He’s scolded multiple times for closing for a few days without notice and interrogated as to why he’d done it. He repeats the same story over and over: Zelda is off for the week, and Draco fell unexpectedly ill. No, he couldn’t make her come in. Yes, he’s fine now. No, he doesn’t expect to have to close again like that in the future, but no, he can’t promise anything. Yes, Zelda will be back from France soon. And yes, he’s well aware of how much better she is at all of this than he is.

He’s exhausted by the time Potter shows up at the shop about fifteen minutes before closing, and Draco sends him out back to check on the owls and collect the mail. He deals with the last few customers and then locks up several minutes early, casts a few half-hearted cleaning charms around the shop, and decides to leave counting the till for tomorrow morning.

“Anything important?” Draco asks when Potter comes back with a paper in hand.

“Nah,” Potter says. “Advert for a new pub opening down the street.”

“Wonderful,” Draco says, taking the flyer and dropping it into the bin. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, picking up a canvas bag and hefting it over his shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?” Draco asks. He hadn’t noticed Potter come in with it, but then again he’d been fairly preoccupied with a witch who felt the need to argue with him about the quality of his fanged geranium teeth, refusing to believe him that they were adequately fresh, even after he took her across the shop and showed her the bloody plant they came from.

Potter grimaces and hitches the straps a little higher on his shoulder. “Feels like a bloody library, even with the Lightening Charms on.”

“What?”

“I asked Hermione for books on curses and she might’ve gone a bit overboard,” Potter says, rolling his eyes a little. “Feels like she gave me every book in _her_ library, and you can probably guess how extensive her personal collection is.”

Draco whirls on him. “You asked Granger? I specifically told you—”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” Potter tells him. “I might’ve given her the impression that I’m considering applying to the Department of Mysteries. There’s a rumour they’re recruiting Unspeakables, and Dark Curses are something they deal with.” He shrugs. “I mentioned it and she jumped to her own conclusions. It’s fine. She doesn’t suspect anything.”

Draco stares at Potter, because he doesn’t know Granger all that well, but he knows enough to recognise that she could be danger. She’s wickedly smart, and the very minute she gets the slightest inkling that something’s off, she’s like a crup with a bone. She won’t stop until she’s reached the truth.

“Malfoy, it’s _fine_ ,” Potter says again. “Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

It takes entirely too long to get back home for Draco’s liking, and walking into the entryway feels like a weight lifting off his shoulders. Potter drops his bag with a loud _thump_ that makes the floorboards vibrate, then kicks off his trainers, grabs the bag, and heads for the living room. Draco takes off his own shoes and puts them under the little table they’d stuck a vase on because they had no idea what else to do with it. He puts Potter’s trainers under there too, neatly lined up beside his own, then follows Potter into the living room.

Potter’s emptied the bag onto the coffee table, and is sorting through an enormous stack of books about curses.

“Oh, here.” Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a paper-wrapped parcel, which he restores to full-sized with a tap of his wand. 

“What’s this?” Potter asks, taking it from him with a small frown.

“Open it and find out,” Draco tells him as he rounds the coffee table and sits down on the other end of the sofa.

Potter tears off the paper while Draco watches apprehensively. He’d meant to get a plain one, and then when he’d seen this in the shop he couldn’t resist wrapping it up as a gift for Potter.

“You got me a bowl?” Potter asks, frowning a little as he turns it over in his hands. Then, “Oh.” He blinks down into the bottom of it where a small image is painted in bold black lines. “You got me a bowl with a deer on it.”

“Well, you’re always losing your keys,” Draco says. “I thought we could put it on the little table by the door? And then your keys could go in it, so you’ll know where they are.” He shrugs. “I know your _Patronus_ is a stag, and when I saw it, well.” He shrugs again, and presses his hands down against his knees. This was a stupid idea and he shouldn’t have done it. “I thought of you.”

Potter opens his mouth, closes it again, and turns the bowl in his hands, rubbing a thumb over the outside rim, which is painted in a design that looks like little hoofprints. “Malfoy, thank you,” he says. “That’s really very nice of you.” He stands up. “I’m going to go put it there right now.”

Draco smiles a little to himself as he watches Potter go into the entryway. There’s the soft _clunk_ the bowl being placed on the little mahogany table, and then the cheerful jingle of Potter dropping his keys into it. Then Potter comes back.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” he says, and smiles, and Draco smiles back reflexively. There’s something about Potter looking so pleased, and knowing that he’s the one that’s made him look like that, that strikes something deep inside him and makes him feel curiously warm.

“Well,” Draco says, looking down at his hands. “Anything to help you get us out the door faster.”

“Here’s hoping,” Potter says, picking up a book and flipping it open before closing it again and setting it aside. “The other morning I was nearly desperate enough to _Accio_ them. And I’ve already learned that’s a bad idea.” He winces. “I tried that once when I was in a hurry, and got knocked over the head by one of my training textbooks.”

Draco blinks and peers at him. “A textbook?” He’s surprised. An imprecise _Accio_ doesn’t usually go that enormously wrong.

“Yeah, I puzzled over that one, too,” Potter says. “But Hermione figured it out. The textbook has practise tests in the back, and there’s an answer _key_ that goes with them.”

“I… Well. That’s certainly impressive,” Draco tells him. He can’t imagine the level of sheer inattentiveness Potter must’ve demonstrated while casting.

“That’s nothing,” Potter says, reaching for the bag by his feet. “I ought to tell you about the time I didn’t enunciate properly when travelling by Floo.”

That sounds like quite a story, and Draco’s about to ask when Potter pulls out two books that are obviously Muggle. One is a book about flowers of the British Isles, the other is a book about the Scottish countryside. They’re large, with shiny covers and thick, glossy pages of full-colour pictures.

“What are these?” he asks, picking up the one about flowers and leafing through the pages.

“Well, see, I was thinking,” Potter says. “We came up with all of our contingency plans, right? And so it makes sense to keep them somewhere accessible, in case we need them. And where’s better to hide them than in plain sight? In fact, I’m going to charm all of these,” He sweeps a hand at the towering stacks of curse books, “to look Muggle and stick them right in the library upstairs. But these,” He taps the two Muggle books, “Are going to stay right down here on the coffee table.”

Draco nods, frowning a little. “All right,” he says.

“Here,” Potter says, reaching for the book about Scotland. He flips through the pages and then, grinning, passes it to Draco.

It takes him several long moments to recognise it. It’s taken from high above a rolling stretch of green field, with a dark forest off to one side, and a broad lake glittering brightly beneath the sun, and—

“Hogwarts,” Draco says. He brushes his fingertips over the glossy picture, tracing where the castle ought to be. “This is where Hogwarts is.” This must be how the Muggles see it. Like it’s not even there.

Potter leans over and taps the page with his wand, and there, Spello-taped to the page, is the list of contingency plans he and Potter had written out this morning. Potter turns the page and shows him where he’s hidden the letters they each wrote out. “See? Hidden in plain sight.”

He taps the pages with his wand again, rendering the Spello-taped papers intangible and invisible once more. Draco turns the Hogwarts page, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, and it feels like nothing’s there. He’s impressed despite himself.

“That’s an interesting bit of magic,” he says. He Conjures a bookmark and slips it between the pages of the book before sliding it onto the coffee table.

“I am an Auror,” Potter says, twirling his wand between his fingers and looks enormously pleased with himself, but not exactly smug. More like a first year who’s learnt a new spell and is eager to show it off. “I know many interesting things.”

Draco snorts. “I’m certain you do,” he says, rolling his eyes a little, and Potter grins at him. Draco taps the book about flowers. “What about this one?”

“That one’s just for the map,” Potter says, flipping open the cover to show a large map of the British Isles. “And because I thought it’d look strange to have just one book on the coffee table.”

“Is buying books specifically for one’s coffee table a Muggle thing?”

Potter shrugs. “I guess? I’ve never really thought about it. But Mrs Figg always had a couple, and so did my aunt.”

Draco is sorely tempted to ask Potter about his aunt, but instead he asks, “Why do we need a map?”

“I was thinking it’d be useful to figure out where you’re going. You could Apparate us to the places you woke up, couldn’t you? And then we’ll mark them on the map and see if we can work out a pattern. Maybe it’ll help me follow you if we can’t break the curse before the next full moon.”

Draco’s stomach twists at the thought of going through another transformation, but if he has to go through it again, he wants Potter to know where to find him. “Right,” he says, staring down at the map. “We can do that tomorrow morning. I don’t open the shop until noon so we’ll have plenty of time.” And truthfully, he’s not looking forward to revisiting the places he’d woken up, either. But it’s just three. Just three jumps, and Potter will be with him the whole time. It’ll be fine.

Potter nods, and then they get to work. They sort through the books of curses, organising them into several piles based on how promising they look, and Draco weeds out the copies of books he’s already looked through in his own efforts at research. Then Draco and Potter take two of the ones that look most promising and settle in to look through them.

They take a short break a while later to heat up the last of the leftovers Molly Weasley had sent them home with last Sunday. Draco opens up a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass.

“Er,” says Potter. “Should you be drinking that in your condition?”

“It’s fine,” Draco says. “My injuries have mostly healed and the wine won’t have any adverse interactions with any of the potions I’ve taken.” Potter still looks dubious, and Draco huffs. “I’m an apothecarist, you do realise. It’s my job to know this sort of thing.”

“Fine,” Potter says, settling down at the table with his plate.

Potter doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but Draco doesn’t waste time arguing with him over it because he hadn’t realised how hungry he is until he takes that first bite, and then he feels suddenly ravenous. He polishes off his first plateful and serves himself the remainder of Molly’s leftovers, drains the last two swallows of wine from his glass and pours himself another.

“Don’t you think you might want to pace yourself a little?” Potter speaks up, nodding at the wine bottle.

Draco gives him a sour look and spitefully pours himself an extra-large glass, then sets the bottle back onto the table with a _thunk_.

“I was just saying,” Potter mutters, and Draco’s temper snaps.

“Well you can stop _just saying_ ,” Draco tells him. “The fact that I am cursed doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself, and I’ll thank you to stop treating me as if I need to be managed.”

“Fine,” Potter says, and then he sighs and adds, softer, “Sorry. I know I’m being a pain, because Hermione does this sort of thing to me all the time and it drives me up the wall.” He pushes a chunk of potato from one edge of his plate to the other with his fork. He laughs quietly, sheepishly, and says, “And here I am, doing it to you.”

“Well,” Draco says after an awkward moment of silence. “I’m sure she only does it because she worries.”

“I know she does,” Potter says quietly. “But that doesn’t make it any less irritating to hear.” He picks up his glass and gulps down the last of it, then holds it across the table. “Pour me another, please?”

Draco does, and they finish eating in silence.

After they clear the table and clean up the kitchen, they take their glasses and the bottle and head back to the living room to keep working. Draco’s made it through his first book without coming across anything that sounds even vaguely like his curse, and has started on a second when he finishes his glass of wine. Sighing, he sets the book aside and reaches for the bottle of wine where it sits on the coffee table.

“Another?” he asks, 

“No, thank you,” Potter says, holding his hand over his glass, and Draco shrugs and pours another for himself, frowns at the tiny bit left in the bottle, and dumps the rest into his glass. “Another one and I’ll fall asleep right here.”

Draco’s already feeling his first two glasses, and this last one will probably be enough to nudge him past tipsy and into feeling drunk. That’s fine, though. He’ll sleep well tonight because of it. He sets the empty bottle aside, takes a large sip, and then gets back to reading.

Nearly an hour later, Potter slams his book shut and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“No luck?” Draco asks.

“None whatsoever,” Potter sighs. He takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes, then cleans off the lenses with the hem of his jumper. “You?”

“Nothing,” Draco says, half-distracted by how different Potter looks without those iconic black glasses cluttering up his face. He looks more vulnerable without them, and somehow younger.

“Are you sure you’re not a Veela?” Potter asks, slumping back against the sofa cushions. He crams his glasses back onto his face and lets his head loll to the side to look at Draco. “Like, you’ve got a Veela or two lurking in your family tree somewhere and your, I don’t know, your latent Veela-ness is finally coming out and making you grow wings?”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not how it works,” Draco says.

“Might be,” Potter says. “You’ve got the blond, and the…” He gestures vaguely to his own face. “You know.”

Draco peers at him, frowning. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“Were-Veela,” Potter says with a nod, and then yawns broadly, making only a token effort to cover it with his hand. “That’s my guess.”

Draco clenches his jaw to stifle a yawn of his own. “Well if that’s the point we’ve reached, I think I’m going to call it a night. You’ll be up early enough to Apparate tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Potter says. “I’m going to stay down here and get through one more.” He leans forward and snags a thin volume from the top of the stack. “This one’s short.”

Draco feels as though he ought to stay down here and read more, working through the stack of books for as least as long as Potter does, but it’s been a long day, and Apparating when he’s not precisely sure of the coordinates is something he’d best be well-rested for. “Goodnight, then,” he says, standing, and Potter immediately shifts around and swings his feet up onto the sofa, stretching out along its length with a contented sigh, and Draco picks up their empty wine glasses.

“If a Veela and a werewolf had a baby…” Potter muses as he opens the book, and can’t resist sneaking a glance up at Draco.

Draco thumps him with a throw pillow.

“Goodnight, Potter,” he says, then picks up the empty wine bottle.

The sound of Potter laughing to himself follows Draco out of the living room and into the kitchen. He puts the wine bottle into the bin Potter told him is for recycling, then rinses out both glasses and leaves them by the sink to wash in the morning.

He can only see the top of Potter’s head over the arm of the sofa as he passes by on his way to the stairs, but when he starts to climb up, a glance over his shoulder shows Potter stretched out on his back, one hand holding the book propped open on his stomach, the other hand tucked behind his head. In another two steps, Draco is too high up and the ceiling blocks his view of the living room.

Draco stops by the bathroom to use the toilet and wash his hands and face and brush his teeth, then he goes into his room and turns on the light and shuts the door. The bed is still exactly as Potter left it, neatly made with the bedclothes folded invitingly back, and Draco smiles a little to himself. Sometimes the best part of the day is getting into bed at the end of it.

It only takes a minute to undress and check his bandages and put on a fresh pair of pyjamas. He sets his alarm clock and turns out the light and gets into bed.

He’s just flipped the covers back over himself and settled comfortably against the mattress when he hears a gentle tap at the window. Draco freezes, listening. And seconds later it comes again, _tap-tap-tap_ , followed by an insistent hoot.

Draco sits up and blinks hard, trying to see across the room to the window. But his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness yet. The tapping comes again. Slowly, Draco pushes back the duvet and swings his feet out of bed. He takes a moment to grab his wand from the bedside table before he stands and moves carefully to the window, step by cautious step. He reaches the escritoire and leans across it, drawing back the curtains with the tip of his wand.

The shadowy dark shape of an owl perches outside, and a coil of apprehension tightens around Draco’s stomach, because no-one would send him an owl here at his Muggle home unless it was an emergency.

Draco fumbles with the latch on the window, tugging at it until it comes loose in a soft grating of rust. He shoves the window up, and the owl bursts into motion. Draco leaps back, startled, as it launches itself off the window and disappears into the night. He waits, but it doesn’t return.

Bracing his hands on his escritoire, Draco leans out the window, looking right, then left, then up, then down. The streetlight casts a pool of dull yellow light over the street, but this far back, everything is shrouded in thick shadows, and it’s hard to see anything around the sprawling branches of the elm tree.

He takes a moment to cast a strong Notice-Me-Not around the window before he whispers, “ _Lumos_.”

The bright wandlight illuminates a pair of glowing red eyes directly in front of Draco. The owl screams, and Draco jumps back, heart pounding, and the owl hops down to a lower branch of the elm tree and screams again.

Draco slams the window shut. He’s got no idea whether it’s a magical owl or a Muggle one, but either way it didn’t have a letter in its talons so it can stay out there. His own pale face stares back at him from the dark glass of the window before Draco whispers, “ _Nox_ ,” and the room goes dark. Draco twitches the curtains shut again.

A moment later there’s a soft scuffle of movement. And then: _tap-tap-tap_.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco mutters, and casts a Muffling Charm on the glass before turning for his bed.

He was better off with the bloody sparrows.

* * * * *

That night, Draco has the fingernail dream again. He would very much like to stop having the fingernail dream.

It’s only a few minutes before when his alarm is set to go off, and he rolls over to turn it off. Then he pushes himself out of bed and gathers his clothes. After a slight hesitation, Draco opens the curtains, and relaxes when there’s nothing out there.

The house is dim and quiet when he steps out into the hallway. Potter’s door is closed, and the bathroom is unoccupied. The click of the latch engaging echoes loud in the small space, and Draco takes off his pyjamas.

He stands in front of the mirror and peels off his bandages. The cut over his ribs is nearly gone, faded to a thin pink line that should disappear entirely with a few rounds of dittany. The puncture wound over his chest is still visible, a puckered pink scar nestled in the slight valley between two ribs. But even though he’s overdue for another pain potion, it doesn’t hurt when Draco pushes on it, and it doesn’t hurt to breathe. The gashes on his back, however, are still raw and red. They’ve barely healed at all, and that’s worrisome.

A protective charm keeps them dry while he showers, and then he slathers them with more Healing Salve and bandages them up again before he dresses for the day.

Potter’s door is still closed when he comes out of the bathroom. He puts his folded pyjamas on his bed, then hesitates outside it on his way downstairs. Usually by the time Draco’s out of the bathroom, he can hear Potter moving around. But it’s still silent. He hopes Potter remembered to set an alarm. Should he knock? Draco lifts his fist, then drops it again. That feels like an invasion of Potter’s personal space. But what if Potter’s oversleeping?

Bacon, Draco decides. He’ll make bacon for breakfast, and even if Potter forgot to set his alarm, he’ll smell the bacon and wake up, and Draco won’t have to do anything.

Plan in place, he heads downstairs, and stops partway down the staircase because Potter’s not in his room at all. He’s still stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. The book is open and pages-down over his stomach with one hand draped over the spine. Potter’s other arm is still crammed under his head, and his head is tilted at an very uncomfortable-looking angle.

Sighing, Draco goes into the living room.

“Potter,” he says.

Nothing. Potter doesn’t even stir.

“ _Potter_ ,” he says again, louder.

Still no response.

Draco thinks longingly of his bacon plan. That would work even better from down here, wouldn’t it?

“Potter,” he says one more time, then reaches out because he’s being ridiculous. If it were him, if he’d accidentally dozed off on the sofa and needed to be woken up, Potter would just do it and Draco wouldn’t have any issue with it.

He gives Potter’s shoulder a little shake and says his name again, and Potter groans, then frowns and blinks his eyes open. He sits up, and the open book flops into his lap.

“Good morning,” Draco says.

Potter blinks sleepily up at him, then takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. The side of the frames have left a pink indentation along his temple, and his hair is sticking straight up in the back.

“Good morning,” Potter says, putting his glasses back on. His voice is soft and sleep-rough, and just like when he went to Potter’s house for the third transformation, Draco is overwhelmed with the feeling that he’s got no right to see any of this. Potter rubs at his neck and yawns. “Ugh,” he says. “Hate it when I fall asleep there.” He rolls his head left, then right, then rubs at his neck again.

“Does this happen often?” Draco asks.

Potter makes a face. “More often than I’d like.”

Draco turns away. “Go get dressed. I’ll have breakfast by the time you come down,” he says briskly.

Draco can hear the stairs creak, and he lets out a slow breath and bends down to get out the cast iron pan.

He’s got everything ready by the time Potter comes back down, dressed in a pair of jeans with a fraying knee and a thick blue wool jumper with a large yellow H stitched onto the front. It doesn’t take long to eat and clean up, and then they take the time to sort through the stack of curse books, with Potter Charming their covers innocuously Muggle before Draco organises them on the shelves in the library. Draco takes a moment to put the sofa back in order from having been slept on, fluffing the cushions and refolding the rumpled afghan, before they put on their shoes and Potter turns to face Draco.

“So,” he says. “How do you want to do this? From here? From your shop?”

“From here,” Draco says, swallowing against the lump of dread tightening his throat. He holds his arm out to Potter. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” Potter says. He holds tight to Draco with one arm, and clutches the book about flowers to his chest with his other.

Draco had considered carefully which to visit first. He’ll do the third location first, while his magic is strongest, because he was only there for a moment and swamped with pain so he’s got the least clear mental picture of it. Then the first, because he was panicked and overwhelmed with the shock of it. And last he’ll do the second.

He closes his eyes and concentrates, takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out again, and tries very hard to not think about the fact that it’s not just himself he’ll Splinch if this goes wrong. He pictures the forest, the chilly ground beneath him, the trees, everything softened by the watery predawn light.

The healing puncture wound in his chest twinges as he Apparates and there’s a split second of panic when Draco can’t breathe, and then the terrible squeezing sensation disappears and they’re standing in a quiet forest. He steps back from Potter and looks around, dead leaves rustling softly under his feet, as he tries to catch his breath.

Nothing looks familiar.

“Well?” Potter asks after a moment.

And Draco shrugs helplessly. “I think this is where I was two mornings ago. But it’s hard to say for certain.” He looks around again. “It was darker then, and I was…” He presses a palm over his ribs where the arrow went in.

“You Apparated us here,” Potter points out. He opens the flower book to the map on the inside cover and taps it with his wand, murmuring a spell. “If you Apparated us here, then this must be it.”

A little red dot appears in the East Midlands. Draco peers down at it, but the map is too small to work out exactly where they are. Potter snaps the book shut and then looks around, and there’s a subtle shift in him, in the way he holds himself and the way he scans their surroundings. And it takes Draco a moment to realise that this isn’t the Harry Potter he sees at home, the one who’s got holes in his socks and falls asleep on the sofa. This is Potter the Auror.

This is who Draco’s put his faith in.

“Ah,” says says, walking a few feet away and crouching down. He picks up something from where it’s half-hidden beneath a scraggly bit of shrubbery. It’s a long, black feather, and he holds it up to show Draco. “Is this one of yours?”

Draco comes closer. “It looks like it might be,” he says.

“Let’s have a look around,” Potter says, standing. He tucks the feather between the pages of the flower book. “See if we can find anything else.”

Draco remembers how he didn’t find anything of note the first time he woke up, but he gestures broadly at the woods around them and says, “Well, you’re the Auror.”

It’s actually quite pleasant out here. It’s a brilliantly bright sunny day, and the branches overhead slice the sunshine into a dappled pattern that shifts over the ground as the wind stirs the treetops. A flash of movement overhead catches Draco’s eye, and he looks up to see a chaffinch watching him. He keeps an eye on it as he walks, following Potter as he moves slowly, inscribing larger and larger circles around the spot where they’d arrived, and the bird flutters from tree to tree, keeping pace with them.

They don’t find anything, and eventually Potter sighs and sweeps a hand through his hair. Above them, the chaffinch trills cheerfully, and a second one alights on the branch next to it. The branch bobs beneath their slight weight, and they both turn their heads to watch Draco.

He looks back at Potter, ignoring them.

“Ready to go?” Draco asks.

“Yeah,” Potter says, still looking around the woods. “There’s nothing here.”

He sounds disappointed and frustrated, and Draco wonders what he’d expected to find. Arrows? More feathers?

A dead body?

Draco startles a little as Potter slips his arm through Draco’s and holds on tight, and he squeezes Draco’s elbow gently as he gives him a reassuring smile. “Ready for the next one?”

“Yes. Hold on.” Draco closes his eyes, concentrates hard on the feel of cold damp leaves, bare branches arching overhead, the gentle woodsy scent of the forest and the way the air itself smells lighter, cleaner. It’s the smell of Hogwarts, of Wiltshire, of being far away from Muggle cities, and Draco knows it from the very bottom of his lungs. He exhales as deeply as he can before he turns on his heel, and the squeezing around his chest this time feels less like a balloon being squeezed but it goes on for longer than Draco expects. 

They land in another forest, and Draco nearly loses his balance.

“Hey,” Potter says, holding tight to his arm, steadying him until Draco can find his equilibrium again. “All right, there?”

Draco swallows, breathes in, breathes out before he answers. “I’m fine.” He gently tugs his arm free of Potter’s concerned grasp. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

He can feel his pulse thudding at his throat, and he can’t quite catch his breath. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep and even until his heart slows, while Potter looks around at their surroundings.

“This was where you woke up last month?” he asks.

“The first month,” Draco says, and is pleased that his voice comes out steady. “I have the clearest idea of where I was the second month, so I thought I’d save it for last.”

Potter’s nodding along. “Good thinking,” he says, then flips open the book. “Does this look right to you?”

Draco takes a look around, his gaze catching on a tree with an oddly forked trunk. “Yes, this is where I woke up the first time,” he says. His chest feels tight, a lingering echo of the panicked confusion he’d felt when he woke up here after that first transformation, the shock of suddenly finding himself lost and alone and hurt and naked, and so, so afraid because he’d had no idea how any of it had happened.

Potter taps his wand to the book and murmurs the spell again, and Draco leans over to see where they are. And then blinks at where the dot’s turned up.

They’re all the way in Northumberland, nearly into Scotland.

If Draco had known how far they were about to travel, he’d have split the trip into two jumps for safety. But he hadn’t even considered the possibility that any of the places he’d woken up would be so far away from London. From the first forest is right at the limits of what Draco had thought he’d be able to Apparate in a single jump.

And it’s even longer from here back to London, and Draco had done that with only a tree branch to guide his magic.

It hits him like a Bludger to the stomach. By all rights, he should have killed himself. He should be dead right now, and he’s got no idea why this realisation is hitting him harder than being shot with an arrow had. But his insides have gone quivery. Merlin, he should be dead right now. He should be dead.

“Malfoy, are you all right?” Potter asks, and Draco coughs out a shaky laugh.

He looks up into the trees for a moment, then asks Potter, “Did I tell you how I got home after the first time I transformed?” He can hear his voice go unsteady.

Potter’s frowning a little as he shakes his head. “No. How’d you get back?”

“I Apparated,” Draco says.

“You Apparated. All the way from here to London? In one jump?” Potter asks, his eyes widening. He glances down at the map in the book, and then back up at Draco.

“That’s not even the best part,” Draco goes on, and has to bite back another nervous laugh. There’s something thrilling about how the expression on Potter’s face is a curious mix of disbelief and admiration. It’s enormously satisfying in a way Draco can’t even begin to explain. “I didn’t have my wand with me, so I made do with the next best thing I could. I broke a branch off a hawthorn tree, stripped it of bark and used that instead.”

The admiration in Potter’s expression increases, and takes on an edge of surprised delight. “And it worked,” he says, incredulous and awed. “You Apparated from here to London with a bloody tree branch and it worked.”

“Yes.”

“I… wow. Malfoy, that sounds like the sort of thing that I would do, and I don’t mean that as a compliment,” Potter says, but he’s got a startled sort of grin on his face as he says it, and something warm curls through Draco to see it.

Knowing he’s impressed Potter makes some of the residual fear fade away, dulls the edges of the panic that’s gnawing at him from the inside.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he admits.

“You’re bloody lucky it worked,” Potter tells him. “Christ, Apparating to fucking London from here is mad enough, even without the tree branch.” He shakes his head a little, disbelieving, but he’s still got that faint grin on his face.

“Please,” Draco says dryly, trying to hide how pleased he is at the way Potter’s looking at him. “It’s not as though you haven’t come up with a hundred lunatic plans and seen them through.”

“Yes, but lunatic plans are always impressive when they work out,” Potter tells him.

“Well,” Draco says. “I suppose you’d be the expert.”

Potter closes the flower book and tucks it under his arm. “Probably,” he says, then looks around. “If you were here over two months ago, there’s probably not much point in looking around for clues,” he says.

“We’re already here,” Draco says with a shrug. “We may as well.”

Truthfully, he’s still feeling a bit woozy from the jump here and would like a bit of time to recover from it. They follow the same path as before, with Potter tracing larger and larger circles around the spot they’d landed. They don’t find anything, but neither of them had really expected to, and then they make the final Apparition.

It’s a mercifully short jump, for which Draco is enormously grateful because he’s honestly not sure they would have made it otherwise. After they arrive in the last forest, Potter’s map spell shows that they’re in Scotland. Apparating here leaves Draco dizzy, trembling and weak-kneed. After a cursory search of the area, during which they discover nothing of use, Potter takes Draco’s arm and Apparates him Side-Along back to their house, splitting the journey into three jumps. And even though Draco didn’t have to expend any of his own magic on the trip home, the rapidfire series of Apparitions leaves him feeling even worse than he had before. He has to brace one hand against the wall to hold himself steady as he takes off his shoes, and he hopes Potter doesn’t notice how unsteady he feels. Potter kicks his off, then the way he grins at Draco as he drops his keys into the bowl on the little table makes Draco smile in response.

“Shall I make lunch?” Potter asks, glancing at the clock. It’s almost noon.

Draco’s not used to eating his lunch until later in the afternoon—he usually sends Zelda off first and then takes care of himself after she gets back—but right now he feels shaky and weak in a way that tells him he’d better get something into his stomach now or he’s going to regret it later.

“I’m still rather full from breakfast,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say no to some toast.”

“Toast, I can handle,” Potter says, already heading into the kitchen. “Tea as well?”

“Please,” Draco calls to him. “I’ll be just a minute.”

He goes into the downstairs toilet and locks the door after himself before he sinks down onto the closed lid of the toilet and slumps forward, face in his hands. For long minutes, he breathes. In, and out, and in, and out. The tile floor is cold beneath his socked feet, and he presses down with his toes and lets it ground him.

After a few minutes, the threat of him falling over becomes less of an immediate concern, and Draco takes out his wand and casts a careful _Lumos_ to test his magic. The spell comes easily, and Draco cautiously feeds more magic into the spell until the dim light emanating from the end of his wand comes through bright and clear. He doesn’t feel the raw tugging that comes from severely depleted magical reserves. Draco murmurs a _Nox_ and puts his wand away, frowning a little to himself.

He’d assumed he’d pushed his magic to its limits with three imprecise Apparitions over long distances. But if that’s not what’s left him feeling so weakened, he has no idea why he’s feeling like this. He stands up, washes his hands, and leaves the loo.

In the kitchen, he finds Potter at the counter, buttering a slice of toast and poking at his mobile phone at the same time. The air smells burnt, and Draco comes up beside Potter to see that the toast on his plate is very overdone.

“Is that for me?” he asks.

“That one’s mine,” Potter tells him. “Go on and sit down. I’ve already called for a cab, will you be ready to go after we eat?”

“That’s not necessary,” Draco says. “We can take the motorcycle.”

Potter frowns at him. “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking a cab for another day or two.”

“I assure you, I’m well enough that a cab is not necessary,” Draco says. He reaches for the bread. “Here, let me—”

Potter taps him across the back of the hand with the flat of the butter knife. “I’ve got this. Go sit down.”

“Really, I don’t mind,” Draco begins.

“I’m making you toast,” Potter says, and huffs indignantly when Draco glances dubiously at the blackened bread on Potter’s plate. “It’s fine. It came out too light the first time and then I put it in again and—Look, don’t worry about it. Yours will be fine, don’t make that face at me. And sit down, for the love of Christ. I know how exhausting imprecise Apparating can be.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco sucks the smear of butter off his knuckles and does as he’s told, though he slips his wand from his sleeve and fills the kettle and puts it on while Potter’s occupied with trying to juggle a butter knife and his mobile phone at the same time.

He gets the cab cancelled and Draco’s toast done at about the same time, and seems surprised to find two mugs of tea waiting on the table when he turns around.

“I was sitting the whole time,” Draco says, taking a sip from his green mug.

Potter makes a face at that as he brings their plates over to the table. “We agreed, no magic in the house.”

“Sorry,” Draco says, not sorry in the least, because what a bloody hypocrite Potter is. “I was under the impression that we agreed no magic in the house, except for those occasions when we feel we’d like to use magic in the house anyhow.”

Potter fists his hands on his hips and stares him down. “Malfoy.”

“I’m not the one with an enchanted motorcycle in the shed,” Draco says with a shrug.

“Yeah, well,” Potter grumbles, and Draco raises his eyebrows, waiting to see what Potter can possibly say to that. “You’re not allowed to complain about it when I’m using it to haul your arse to work.”

“I’m not complaining about it. I’m merely commenting upon its existence.” He takes another long sip of tea. Then frowns across the table at the burnt toast on Potter’s plate. “Are you really going to eat that?”

Potter shrugs. “It’ll just go to waste, otherwise.”

“But it’s burnt.”

“It’s not burnt,” Potter says. “It’s just a little overdone. It’s fine.” He takes a large, crunching bite.

“Right,” Draco says, and takes a bite of his own perfectly golden brown toast. “You’re an odd one, you know that?”

Potter shrugs, chewing. A black crumb dots his lower lip, and Draco looks away.

“Are you going over to the Burrow?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Potter says. “I already told Molly you wouldn’t be joining me today because Zelda’s off. She’ll probably send extra leftovers home with me.”

Draco nods. “Well, give her my apologies again, please?”

“Sure.”

And Draco’s anxiety over Potter attending without him are drowned out by his relief at not having to attend. Just because last Sunday wasn’t the total disaster Draco had expected doesn’t mean that he enjoyed it or that he’s at all eager to repeat the experience.

* * * * *

Even an average afternoon at the shop is enough to wear Draco out. The hours pass by in a constant stream of browsing customers asking inane questions, and Draco can’t help casting longing glances at the door to his potions lab. He misses Zelda desperately. He has no idea how she manages to do this each and every day, and still have a smile on her face by the time she locks up for the evening. Draco knows that he used to do this all on his own, and managed for over a year and a half, but it’s a distant sort of knowledge, almost as if it happened to someone else. And he certainly didn’t handle it with anything even approaching the grace that Zelda does.

He’d come in today optimistic that he’d have the energy at the end of the day to spend an hour or two in his lab catching up on mail orders. But after an afternoon spent on his feet with no break, and after the Apparating he did this morning, on top of already being somewhat weakened from healing from his injuries, he locks the door at the end of his day and wants nothing more than to sit down for a while like a useless lump and do a whole lot of nothing.

He manages to brew a single batch of Calming Draught, and only then because that involves dumping the entire list of ingredients into the cauldron at once, bringing the heat up slowly, and then letting it simmer untouched for thirty-five minutes, during which Draco slumps on his stool and dozes with his head against his worktable.

He must drift off at some point, because he jerks awake to his wand buzzing loudly against the table. He cancels the alarm he’d set and extinguishes the flame from beneath the cauldron, then decants the Calming Draught into vials which he labels and takes out into the shop to add to the stock available for sale. There was only one left, and Draco puts it at the front of the row so it’ll sell first, then sighs and unlocks the door and casts a Ward over it so that it’ll only open for Potter, then heads back into his potions lab to clean up.

A starling alights on the windowsill outside, cocking its head first one way, then the other, peering through the glass to watch him as he moves. Draco ignores it as he puts away the jars and canisters of ingredients, and wipes down his worktable.

Draco takes the dirty cauldron over to the sink and scours it clean, whistling a little bit to himself as he works. The warm water, the frothy soap, the methodical motions of scrubbing, it all lulls him a bit, and his mind drifts. He’s just setting aside the cauldron to dry when the door opens and Potter comes in.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. His nose and cheeks are a little pink with cold, his hair windswept.

“Hello,” Draco says, reaching for a tea towel to dry his hands. “How was your afternoon?”

“Fine,” Potter says. “Everyone at the Burrow was doing well. Molly sent home enough food to keep us fed practically through next Sunday. Oh, and Ron’s thinking about going to a Quidditch game next weekend. The Harpies are playing the Cannons, if you’re interested in watching a bunch of girls on broomsticks kick some serious arse. Ginny’s a reserve Chaser, I don’t know if you knew, but one of the first-string Chasers caught a bad Bludger during practise so there’s a good chance she’ll get some time on the pitch this game.”

“Oh, I…” Draco blinks at him, the tea towel dangling limp from his fingers. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind me coming along?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” Potter says with a shrug. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know,” Draco says. He folds the tea towel in half and hangs it up to dry, and as he passes by the window, the starling tweets out a wandering melody.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Potter says. “Ginny’s going to give Ron hell about his team losing at dinner on Sunday. If you don’t go, then you won’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I’ll think about it,” Draco says. It’s one thing that they have to attend the weekly dinners with their respective families together, and it makes sense to do things like have breakfast together in the morning or sit down in the living room to research Draco’s curse. But something like attending a Quidditch match, that’s not something done out of convenience, nor is it necessary to maintain the sham of their relationship. 

Going to a Quidditch match together is something friends do with each other, and Draco doesn’t want to impede Potter and Weasley’s enjoyment of it. Potter’s already inconvenienced himself enough to help Draco. He should be able to relax and have a nice afternoon with his friend, not constantly worry about keeping up his act. And Weasley will certainly be more at ease if it’s just him and Potter. 

“See, the way you said that makes me think that the answer’s no and you just don’t want to tell me,” Potter says. “And I don’t understand why, because you like Quidditch, and you don’t seem to mind my company too much.” He frowns. “Is it Ron? Because he’ll be distracted the whole time by the Cannons losing. There’s really not much opportunity for conversation between all the shouting.”

“I’d feel like I’m imposing,” Draco says. And that sounds like he’s begging for reassurance, so he adds, “And anyhow, I don’t have the time to waste on Quidditch right now. We still haven’t read through most of the books you borrowed from Granger, and I’ve special ordered another batch from Flourish & Blotts that should be in by the end of the week. And I’m behind on mail orders.”

Potter shrugs. “You’re not imposing,” he insists, because of course that’s the part he fixated on. “If I wanted to go to a Quidditch match without you, I would have told you I was going and that would have been that.” He shrugs again.

“Maybe next time,” Draco says after a long pause. The starling at the window keeps singing.

Potter frowns, brow furrowing as if he’s concentrating hard on something. “Malfoy,” he says slowly. “Is that bird whistling the Spell-B-Gone Cauldron Soap jingle?”

Draco looks over to the window where the starling cocks its head and sings again.

“Bloody hell,” he says, because the bird is indeed whistling that stupid song. It’s imperfect, and the melody is half-hidden beneath warbles and chirps, but it’s enough to be recognisable. “Well. That’s new.”

Potter steps closer to the window, and the starling flies off. He looks back at Draco, and Draco shrugs helplessly.

“Weird,” Potter says.

“Something else to add to our search parameters, perhaps?” Draco suggests. “Which, speaking of, we’d best get home. I’d like to get through at least another few books tonight.”

“All right,” Potter says. “I’ll drop you off at home, and then I think I’m going into work for a while.”

“Oh?” Draco asks. “What for?”

“Well,” Potter says. He’s got a cagey sort of look to him that makes Draco frown suspiciously. “I think I’ve got a lead that might possibly turn out to be useful.”

“What is it?” Draco asks

Potter hesitates. “Well…” He takes a breath. “You’re not going to like it…”

* * * * *

Well, Draco thinks to himself three days later as he stares down at the dead body in front of him. Potter certainly wasn’t wrong.

Potter had refused to tell Draco any of the specifics what he had planned, beyond using the locations Draco had woken up to see if he could find information about whose blood he woke up covered in. And it’s good he hadn’t. Draco would have flat-out refused to have anything to do with this mad plan if he’d known where they were going. Instead, he’d donned the strange pyjamas that Muggle Healers wear and had drunk the Polyjuice Potter handed him without question, and then followed him into this building with exactly the sort of blind trust in the Chosen One that had made Draco scoff back at school, when others followed Potter as if he couldn’t possibly lead them wrong.

“Do I even want to know how you found him?” Draco asks after a few long moments.

“Blatant abuse of my position and privilege as both an Auror and the Chosen One,” Potter answers. “I shouldn’t tell you in any more detail than that. Plausible deniability and all that.”

And given Potter’s penchant for rule-breaking when he’s made up his mind he’s right about something, Draco decides he’s better off not knowing the particulars.

“Right,” Draco says. He swallows. “Ah, should we…?”

He shivers and glances around. The dead bloke lying on the table before them had turned up naked in a forest the first night Draco went missing, just three miles from where Draco woke up. That was over two months ago, and Draco finds it terrifically disturbing that the Muggles keep their dead lying about for so long. Potter had explained that it’s because they hadn’t been able to identify the man and he’d died under mysterious circumstances, but Draco still thinks it’s barbaric.

Potter takes out his wand and casts a _Wingardium_ to lift the body a couple of feet off the table, then walks around it, looking at it this way and that. Draco looks over it as well, but other than the large Y-shaped cut crudely stitched back together on the body’s front, there are no injuries.

“Shit,” Potter mutters. “I wish we could get into the computers to find his file. I’d like to get a look at what they decided was the cause of death.” He glances apprehensively at Draco. “Do you think we ought to open him up?”

Draco would never describe himself as _squeamish_. His profession, by necessity, involves quite a lot of time getting quite familiar with handling with all sorts of unsavoury things. But the idea of undoing the crude stitches holding this man’s chest and stomach closed and rooting about inside him, searching for clues…

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to do it.

“Would we even know what we’re looking for?” Draco asks, stalling for time to build up his nerve. He can already see where this is headed. “I’d have no idea how to tell whether something’s not right.”

Potter looks over at him. “Don’t you? You run an apothecary, yeah? Don’t you have to dissect things sometimes?”

“ _Things_ ,” Draco says with great emphasis. “I can dissect mice and bats and frogs. I don’t have the first clue what to do with a _person_.”

Potter shrugs helplessly. “I haven’t got any other ideas.”

“Merlin,” Draco breathes. “Merlin fuck.” He whips out his wand and casts several strong protective and sealing spells over his hands. Because he hasn’t got any other ideas, either.

He reaches out, and catches a faint tingle of magic. It’s like being in a crowd and catching the faintest snippet of a familiar song. There’s something else there, between Potter’s _Wingardium_ and the Polyjuice and Draco’s protective spells on his hands.

“Wait. Put him back down and cancel your spell,” Draco says. He strips the spells from his hands while Potter gently lowers the body back to the table, and then he reaches out. He doesn’t quite touch the body, but he holds his hand so close to it that he can feel the chill wafting from its skin. He closes his eyes, breathing, and then… “Oh.” He opens his eyes and stares down. “He’s got a spell on him.”

Potter frowns as he reaches out, mimicking Draco. “How can you tell?”

“I just can?” he says, faintly surprised that Potter can’t feel the strange thread of magic reverberating through the body like a wrong note. “Some people are more sensitive to magic than others.”

Draco takes out his wand again and turns it thoughtfully in his fingers as Potter takes a step back. He’s not sure what exactly the spell is doing, but the way it responds to the more general counter-spells might give him more of a clue. Unless he’s lucky enough that one of them will counter it completely. He tries a _Finite_ first, and the very air around the body wavers faintly, like heat rising from pavement on a hot summer day. For an instant, it looks almost-but-not-quite like a poorly-cast Glamour.

“If you’re so sensitive to magic, then can’t you use that to figure out your curse?” Potter asks. “I mean, at least enough to help us narrow down where to look for it?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Draco says. “Curses use the victim’s own energy. Because I’m a wizard, the curse on me is drawing its power from my own magical core. And because of that, it becomes indistinguishable from my magical signature.” He peers at Potter. “Shouldn’t they have covered this in Auror training?”

“Not really,” Potter says. “We learned some diagnostic charms to tell whether or not someone’s been cursed, and anything really bad gets turned over to the Unspeakables.”

Draco nods, and casts the counter-spell to strip off a Glamour, to no effect.

“ _Revelio_ ,” Draco says, and the body’s skin twists, rippling, and then the wounds blossom, gaping open and bloodless.

“Oh,” Potter says. “Shit.”

The size and shape of the wounds is disturbingly familiar. There’s a puncture wound on the man’s chest, and another in his stomach, and one more in his thigh. There are two more wounds, deep slashes to his other thigh and his upper arm. Glancing blows, Draco realises with a start. That’s what those cuts he wakes up with are. Someone’s been shooting at him this whole time.

Potter casts another _Wingardium_ and lifts the body, checking for more wounds.

“Malfoy,” Potter says from where he’s half-crouched, peering up at the man’s back. “Take a look at this.”

Potter lifts the body higher, and Draco looks underneath. And there, between the man’s shoulder blades, are two very familiar-looking gashes.

“He’s been cursed,” Draco says, stunned. “He was under the same curse I am.”

* * * * *

Draco’s still shaken when he allows Potter to Apparate him to another morgue. A _Revelio_ on each one shows that they were all cursed. The second body also reveals three wounds. The third and fourth bodies have one each, in addition to the deep gashes between their shoulder blades.

A clean blow to the heart.

Whoever is doing this is getting better.

Draco presses a hand over the scar on his ribs. Not perfect yet, thank Merlin. But how much longer until he is?


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you feeling all right?” Zelda asks, and Draco nearly drops his glass stirring rod into the cauldron.

He hopes it wasn’t obvious how badly he’d been startled, and tries to project an aura of calm as he looks up to where Zelda’s watching him from the doorway. Behind her, he can hear the murmur of customers browsing through the shop. “Hm? Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“I called your name,” she says, and she’s watching him closely. “You didn’t respond.”

Draco wipes the stirring rod off on a rag before he sets it down on his worktable. “Lost in thought,” he says, and shifts a little to the side to block Zelda’s line of sight to the cauldron. “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to let you know that we’re nearly out of Healing Salve,” she says. “We’ll probably run out in the next few days.” She’s frowning at him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” he tells her firmly. 

Zelda hums like she doesn’t quite believe him. “Well, Dorothea came by earlier. She said you had the shop closed for part of the time I was gone.”

Draco stills for a moment, then reaches for the cannister of dried knotgrass.

“I was feeling unwell,” Draco says, carefully scooping knotgrass onto his brass scales. “But I’m better now.”

“Oh,” says Zelda. “I hope it wasn’t anything too serious?”

“It wasn’t,” he says, glancing over at her. There’s something in her too-casual tone that makes him suspicious.

“I’m glad to hear. I was worried when I heard you had the shop closed for three days.”

“Two and a half,” Draco says, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

“Well pardon me for caring,” she huffs.

Draco shakes his head and uses his wand to lower the flame beneath the bubbling cauldron before he stirs in the knotgrass. “Well you needn’t care so much. Merlin, you sound like my mother.”

“You mean that to be an insult, but I’m not going to take it as one,” Zelda tells him, and then goes back into the front of the shop before he can respond.

Draco turns back to his cauldron. He should have realised that Dorothea would say something to Zelda. Well. Zelda will have hired the new assistant by the next full moon, so even if the next full moon falls during another Jewish holiday or if Zelda goes abroad again, or both, he’ll have someone to keep the shop open.

He still feels somewhat apprehensive about having an unknown person spending lots of time in his shop, but he doesn’t have the time or the energy to be involved in the process of interviewing applicants. Besides, he trusts Zelda. She wouldn’t hire someone with whom Draco won’t get along. 

Casting another glance at the door, Draco reaches into a little box and takes out the last piece of the feather he’d brought in today. He drops it into the cauldron, gives it a stir, and reduces the heat again.

In one hour, he should have his results. Turning away, Draco hauls out another cauldron and sets it up on another flame, puts several chunks of beeswax into it, and begins to mince leeches while he waits for it to melt. It’s easy to distract himself from the other cauldron, the one he’s using to test the feather. Of the five Potter had removed from him, four haven’t yielded any useful results.

He has the fifth one kept safely at home, and if this test fails too, he’s got plans for it later tonight.

After the tests he’d done on the third feather had failed, Draco had mentioned to Potter that he’s got an old childhood friend who has received formal training at the Centre for Alchemical Studies, and if none of the tests he does on the fourth feather turn up anything conclusive, he’s taking the fifth one to her lab to see what she can find out about it. The curse is transformative in nature, and Alchemy is the study of transmutation, so he’s optimistic she might have some ideas about working out the particulars of the curse. He’d mentioned to her in their last exchange that he might be interested in the services of a skilled Alchemist, and they’d arranged for him to stop by her lab tonight to discuss it further.

He’d told Potter about it last night, and expected Potter to nod and go right back to examining the anatomy textbook he was reading through in an attempt to determine whether an arrow to the heart would bleed enough to explain the amount of blood Draco comes home covered in; instead, Potter broke into a wide smile and said, “Sure, let me know when we’re going.”

“You don’t have to join me,” Draco had said, and Potter had leant across the table and clapped him on the shoulder and told him, “Of course I do, Malfoy, we’re in this together, aren’t we?”

And what could Draco possibly say to that?

He’d had to wait until he’d arrived at his shop this morning to owl Katie to let her know he’d be bringing along a guest because he didn’t want to see what she’d do to him if he turned up at her lab with Harry bloody Potter unexpectedly in tow. He’d stopped by her lab once before, to pick her up when they got lunch together some weeks ago, and at a quick glance he didn’t see anything immediately illicit lying about. But knowing who her father is and what her family does, he feels that it’s best to err on the side of caution.

Draco has the Coagulating Paste finished and packed into little jars when the test he’s running on the feather finishes. A quick peek into the cauldron shows exactly what he’d expected to find: nothing. Sighing, he empties the cauldron and runs hot water into both of them, scrubs out the one he’d used for his test and leaves the other full of hot water and soap. Coagulating Paste always leaves a stubborn layer of gunk that’s easier to remove if he leaves it to soak for a bit.

He’s drying his hands when the door swings open and Zelda pokes her head in. “We need more Knuts. Would you mind running to Gringotts for me, please?”

“Just a moment,” Draco tells her, and she goes back out front.

He carefully affixes labels to the jars of Coagulating Paste, puts half of them away in the storeroom beneath the stairs and then takes the rest out into the shop.

Zelda has left a little stack of silver Sickles sitting on the end of the counter.

“Put those in a bag for me, please,” Draco tells her as he walks by on his way to the shelves with pre-brewed potions, and she sighs as she sweeps them off the counter and into the palm of her hand before she does as he asks.

“Here,” she says to him when he finishes arranging the jars on their shelf. She holds out the small cotton sack they use for taking coins to and from Gringotts, and he takes it.

“I think I’m going to stop by that little coffeeshop that just opened up the street. Would you like anything?” he asks, tucking the sack into his trousers pocket.

“No thank you,” Zelda says, then, “Oh, I think we’d best get change for one more Sickle.” She opens up the till and takes one out, holds it across the counter to Draco.

Draco takes the cotton sack out of his pocket and holds it open for her to drop the Sickle inside, which she does after a slight hesitation. Draco stares at her. Zelda stares back.

“What,” she says flatly.

“Nothing,” he says, cinching the drawstring of the sack closed and pocketing it again. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Are you certain you wouldn’t like anything?”

He can tell by her expression that she’s tempted—he knows for a fact that she’s been hooked on dark coffee sweetened with almond syrup ever since she accidentally took a sip from his cup instead of hers one day—but Zelda shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.”

He steps out of the shop and into the sunlit street.

* * * * *

“So, who is this we’re going to see?” Potter asks. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and glances around the darkened street suspiciously.

There’s nothing of note anywhere around them, but Knockturn Alley inspires that sort of thing even in the broad light of day. Here, deep into twilight, even Draco feels the urge to look around.

“I told you, we’re going to see a very good friend of mine to see if she can help with the feather,” Draco says, then chides, “You needn’t sound so suspicious about it.”

“Well pardon me,” Potter says dryly, glancing over his shoulder again. “But I can’t help but be suspicious when I’m taken to Knockturn Alley for a mysterious rendezvous under cover of darkness with an individual you refuse to tell me anything about. It sort of sets off my Auror senses, you know?”

“I’m not taking you to Knockturn Alley,” Draco says. “We’re merely walking down Knockturn Alley because it’s the shortest path to where we’re going. We could have walked down Diagon, but the trip would have taken twice as long.” Like Draco’s shop, the lab space Katie leases is right on the corner of Knockturn, but she’s down at the other end of it, where Knockturn intersects with Iron Alley. “And _a mysterious rendezvous under cover of darkness_ , good Merlin. It’s barely past suppertime and the streetlamps have only just come on, so I’ve got no idea why you’re being so dramatic. You sound like a cheap romance novel.”

“I do not, and don’t change the subject, Malfoy,” Potter tells him. “I don’t even know the name of this friend of yours.”

“Her name is Katie,” Draco says. “I told you, she studied at the Centre for Alchemical Arts in Egypt. She’s a good friend, so I know she’ll be discreet.”

“And she’s a childhood friend, you said? Her parents and yours knew each other well?”

“Her father and mine started pushing for the two of us to get married when we were very young children,” Draco says, and hopes Potter will leave it at that as an explanation for how they know each other. He’s reluctant to mention that Lucius and Alyosha know each other because they did quite a lot of business together, years ago. Potter knows all too well about how Lucius has had an unfortunate tendency to take advantage of the greyer areas of the law when he thought he could get away with it; Draco certainly doesn’t want Potter getting any ideas that Alyosha might be the same. “Obviously that wasn’t going to happen, but we grew to be very good friends.”

But Potter only says, “Huh,” and then glances over his shoulder again.

They don’t pass anyone except a pair of hags whispering together in a dim doorway. Iron Alley is broader and the streetlamps shine a little brighter, and Draco leads Potter around the corner and up to a narrow building where he raps briskly on the door with the tarnished brass knocker.

The sharp sound reverberates through the empty street, and Draco takes a step back and waits. Then the lock rattles and the door swings open. Draco steps inside, followed closely by Potter, and then shuts and locks the door after them, then turns back to see Potter looking curiously around. There’s not much to see down here. There are several empty shelves sitting in the middle of the room, and several large crates stacked against the far wall. Remnants of whatever shop was here before Katie took over. Everything is dim and dusty, and a blaring wireless echoes down from above

“She’s upstairs,” Draco says unnecessarily, leading the way to a wrought iron staircase that leads up to the floor above.

Upstairs is warm yellow lamp light reflecting off the dark windows, bare walls and pine floors, and a haphazard collection of tables and benches and shelves, each one piled with stacks of parchment, teetering towers of books, quills and glass bottles of ink, journals and sketchpads, and dozens upon dozens of unusual devices made of metal and glass. An enormous chalkboard takes up the entire rear wall of the room, every inch of it covered with Katie’s cramped handwriting, interspersed with scribbled arithmancy equations and elaborate designs. A wizarding wireless sits atop a tall bookshelf, blasting out something Draco doesn’t recognise, with a pounding drumbeat and lots of screaming.

There’s no organisation to it at all, and it sets Draco’s teeth on edge. He has no idea how Katie can work surrounded by chaos, the mess and the _noise_ , good Merlin, Draco has no idea what station she’s tuned into that’s playing this rubbish, it’s not even music. Trying to get any amount of work done in an environment like this would drive him mad. But to each their own, he supposes, because she’d said the same about his potions lab. _Too impersonal_ , she’d called it, said it was _stifling_.

Katie’s over by the table by the window, tinkering with a contraption of coiled copper tubes, and she sets down her tools and wipes off her hands on her apron as she turns to Draco and Potter, who’s looking around the lab with unabashed curiosity.

He can see the instant where her cheerful expression flickers, but it’s back in full force when she crosses the room to greet them. She reaches them before Draco has time to wonder what it means.

“This is a surprise,” Katie says, all smiles as she takes Potter’s hand and shakes it firmly. “I had no idea Draco was bringing anyone else along.”

And a cold wave of alarm sweeps through Draco.

“I owled you this afternoon,” he says quickly. “Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Obviously I didn’t if I just said I was surprised,” Katie tells him lightly, then smiles and says to Potter, “I’m Katie.”

“Harry. It’s nice to meet you,” Potter says politely.

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine,” Katie says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Not that much,” Draco grumbles. He’s only mentioned Potter a few times in their letters, and only because they’re living together. It’s been hard enough to avoid talking about his curse while owling back and forth with Katie, without also trying to avoid talking about the bloke he’s living with. And it would’ve seemed suspicious, besides; he and Potter have been in all the papers so Katie already knew they were together.

“I’m afraid you’re ahead of me, there,” Potter says. “Draco hasn’t said much about you at all.”

“He’d better not have, if he knows what’s good for him,” Katie says brightly, and Potter laughs like it’s a joke.

It’s not a joke. It’s really, really not, and Draco hopes that none of his rapidly-increasing apprehension shows.

Katie turns and gives Draco a smile, a very pretty and very sweet one, and Draco swallows. “Draco,” she says, her tone just as pretty and sweet, and oh Merlin. Draco’s in for it now. “A word in private, if you don’t mind?”

They leave Potter standing in the main lab space as she leads him into the small office adjoining the main lab space, and the moment they’re out of sight, she’s got him up against the wall with her wand at his throat. “You have brought an Auror to my lab. And not just any Auror, but you have brought me _Harry bloody Potter_. Knowing who my father is. Knowing what my family does.” She stares at him, steady and unrelenting, and Draco feels a sharp chill twist through him. He’s never seen her this angry. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hex the _fuck_ out of you.”

It occurs to him just then that Katie’s got a Durmstrang education, and he really doesn’t care to find out firsthand whether the rumours about all the Dark Arts they learn there are accurate. 

“Other than the Auror in the next room?” he asks with far more composure than he feels. “You’re smarter than that.”

Katie’s mouth tightens and she jabs her wand more firmly into the tender skin beneath his chin. Draco swallows reflexively, feels his Adam’s apple bob against the tip of her wand.

“Because I need you,” he says quietly. “Please. I wouldn’t have brought him here if it wasn’t important. If this case wasn’t important.” He’s got no idea where the lie comes from, but it’s probably for the best he hadn’t known what he was about to say before he said it. The fact that he didn’t think before he said it is probably the only reason it’s believable. He can see she’s bought it in the way her anger simmers down. “Please,” he says again. “You could be an enormous help to him.”

The pressure of her wand on his throat eases of the barest fraction as she stares him in the eye. “This is important to you. This case, it’s important to you personally.”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing again. “And helping me is personal to you. I helped you, Katie. I didn’t have to warn you about the Aurors sniffing around your father’s business colleague and I did. You owe me for that.”

She steps back, keeps the wand pointed at him, but at least it’s no longer digging into his neck. “Did you get that information from him?” she asks, and doesn’t give him a chance to answer before she raises and eyebrow and says, “Well, that’s interesting. Does he know?”

“No,” he says. He resists the urge to check and see if Potter’s overheard, though logically he knows he couldn’t have. The wireless is more than loud enough to cover his conversation with Katie. “And I’d prefer if he didn’t.”

Shaking her head, Katie puts her wand away. “Sometimes, Draco Malfoy, you are too like your father. Keeping so many secrets, playing so many different angles…” She sighs. “It never ends well for anyone.”

“I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we,” he says. Then, “Will you help?”

Katie shrugs, sighs, and nods. “Consider our debts balanced, then. He gave me useful information, unwitting though it may have been, and I’ll do my best to give him the information he needs in return.”

“Thank you,” Draco says.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Katie says as she sweeps past him, back out into the lab. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Potter’s leaning over a table, looking at a strange device made of twisted brass wire and crystal lenses, and swinging his hips a little as he sways in time to the song on the wireless. He stops as soon as he notices them come back, straightening up and frowning a little as he looks over at them.

“Everything all right?” he asks, looking at Draco, who gives a minute shake of his head.

“Just fine,” Katie says with a smile. “Draco was telling me a little bit about your case.”

“My case?” Potter repeats, and Draco hastily jumps in before he can say anything else.

“I’m sorry, I already told her that you need her help for a case the Aurors are working. I know you didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve known Katie practically my whole life. We can trust her.”

“Oh,” says Potter. “Well, I wish you’d discussed it with me beforehand.”

Draco shrugs and doesn’t meet his eye. Instead, he takes out the feather and hands it over to Katie. “Someone is casting curses that force people to grow wings with each full moon. This is from one of the victims. I’ve tested others to the best of my ability, but…”

“We were hoping that, since the curse is transformative in nature,” Potter steps in smoothly, “perhaps a trained Alchemist might have better luck.”

Katie holds the feather by the quill and spins it thoughtfully between her fingers. “I have some ideas I can try. Is this evidence in your case? Will you need it back?”

“No,” Potter says. “Do whatever you need to do to it.”

Katie hums thoughtfully. “It’ll be a few days. Shall I contact you at the Ministry?”

“Actually, I’d prefer if you contacted me directly,” Potter says. “I’m living in a Muggle area currently, but if you send an owl to Draco’s shop, it’ll get to me from there.”

“All right,” Katie says. She sets the feather down atop a nearby stack of books and sticks out her hand. “Well, Harry Potter, I’ll see what I can do.”

“The Ministry thanks you kindly for your service,” Potter replies very solemnly, shaking her hand.

They talk for a little while longer. Katie asks Draco about his parents, and Draco asks after her father. They make plans to have lunch together early next week, and then Katie not-so-subtly invites them to leave, saying she’s got a lot of work left to get through. Draco gives her a hug, and then he and Potter show themselves out.

“You know,” Potter says as they step outside, “you could have told me that you planned to tell her I’m meant to be working a case.”

“I didn’t exactly plan to tell her,” Draco mutters, tucking his hands into his pockets and trying to keep from shivering. It feels like the temperature’s dropped since they went inside, and the wind’s picked up some. “But she wanted to know why I’d brought along the famous Harry Potter and it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why you’d be there and where the feather came from in the first place?” Frankly, they should have considered it before. Katie would have examined the feather without questions simply because Draco asked her too, but it’s better to have an explanation to keep her from growing curious.

“Next time we’re coordinating our story beforehand,” Potter says as they turn down Knockturn Alley, heading back to Draco’s shop where they’ll take the Floo back to the Ministry where Potter’s left his motorbike parked. “Because that could’ve gone a lot worse.”

“You’re the Auror,” Draco tells him, “Shouldn’t you have thought of this?” and Potter gives him a sour look.

“Sod off,” Potter tells him, giving Draco a little shove.

Draco takes a big step to the side to recover his balance, then gives Potter a superior look. “That’s not a very nice way to speak to your boyfriend,” he says loftily.

“Oh fuck off,” Potter says through a laugh, swinging his arm like he’s try to shove Draco again, and Draco dodges him neatly, smiling a little. “Christ, you’re a cheeky little shit.”

Draco snickers, and then drifts closer to Potter over the next couple of steps. Their shoulders bump, and Draco tips his head back to look up into the sky, sighing a little. It’s not cold enough to see his breath and he exhales again, all the way from the bottom of his lungs to see if he can make steam.

“You seem happier right now,” Potter says, glancing over at him. They’re passing underneath a streetlamp, and the warm light falls over them, glints off Potter’s glasses, makes all the edges and angles of his face look just different enough that Draco finds himself giving Potter a second look.

They move away from the streetlamp, passing back into shadow, and Draco looks down at his feet as he pauses, considering Potter’s comment. He does feel happier, and somehow lighter. It takes him a moment to place it: handing over that feather to Katie feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. He’s optimistic she’ll be able to find out more about it than he could, and he’s hopeful that information will lead him to discover what curse he’s under and how to break it. 

“Well, I am,” he says finally. “Katie is good at what she does. She’ll find out more.”

“Good,” Potter says, then again, quieter, “Good.” He nudges Draco’s elbow with his own and gives him a crooked smile. “I’m glad.”

The way he looks, the sound of his voice, it’s all so sincere that it knocks Draco off balance. Potter really, genuinely is glad to see Draco happier, and the realisation feels like descending a staircase and expecting to reach the ground, only to find there’s an extra step. It makes his stomach swoop with that same sort of startled panic.

Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? But this is the first time that it’s clicked together for Draco that Potter cares about him. And he’d known that, to some extent. Because Potter was helping him, wasn’t it? Potter didn’t want Draco to die. But there’s a difference between wanting someone to not die, and wanting them to be happy. 

And he can’t help but wonder whether it’s because this is Harry Potter, if that same part of him that made him the Chosen One means that he can’t help but care for everyone around him. Or whether it’s because of him. That Potter cares about Draco himself. That maybe, after all this time, they’re finally learning how to be friends.

* * * * *

“Have you somehow lost the ability to walk across the street?” Draco demands when Zelda asks him to go to Gringotts to exchange coins for the third time in as many days. “During business hours when you’ve got customers in the shop is one thing, but we don’t open for another five minutes.”

He folds his arms over his chest and makes no move to take the Sickles that Zelda stacked neatly on the counter. For a long moment, he and Zelda stare at each other.

“I haven’t cleaned the skylights or watered Francine yet today,” Zelda points out. “Both of which I know you hate. I thought I could do those while you’re at the bank.”

That’s very true, but Grabthar has finally seen through Draco’s inane-weather-babble ploy and now very deliberately counts the coins even slower than his usual glacial pace as some sort of ridiculously passive-aggressive form of revenge. Zelda’s set aside a large number of Sickles, and if Draco waits around to get all of them exchanged for Knuts, he’ll be at Gringotts until teatime.

So Draco slings a _Scourgify_ at the skylights and an _Aguamenti_ at the fanged geranium. “There,” he says, whisking his wand back up his sleeve. “Go to Gringotts.”

Zelda huffs and sweeps the stack of Sickles into the palm of her hand before stamping off, and Draco hasn’t got the faintest idea what she’s got herself so worked up over. The Goblins like her well enough; she’ll be back inside of ten minutes. But she’s been behaving strangely ever since she came back after her time off from the shop. He wonders whether something happened while she was away that she’s not telling him.

Well. If she wanted to tell him, she would have. And if she hasn’t then it must not be that important.

The shop is ready to open otherwise, and Draco props open the door to the back room so he can watch the front while he organises the ingredients for the first batch of potions he’s got on the schedule to brew today.

He’s just hauling his largest cauldron out and hefting it up onto his worktable when the bells over the door jingle, and Draco glances over, expecting to see Zelda.

Instead, Katie’s stepping into the shop.

“Come on back,” he calls out to her, then, when she steps into his potions lab, he adds, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she says and hoists herself up to sit on his worktable.

“There is a stool right next to you,” Draco points out, giving the side of her arse a jab with his wand, and she swats him away.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, lifts up her feet and plunks them down onto the seat of the stool. She crosses her feet.

Draco swishes his wand and yanks the stool out from under her, sending it sliding down to the other end of the worktable. Katie lets her feet swing for a moment, then hooks one ankle over the other. She cocks an eyebrow, daring him to say anything else about it, and Draco rolls his eyes and reaches up to get the jug of vinegar down from its shelf.

“Have you come here for a reason? Or did you simply wake up this morning and feel like bothering me?” he asks as he uncorks the jug and measures a cup, pouring it into the bottom of the cold cauldron. She’s come here for the feather. Of course she has, why else would she visit him first thing in the morning? But he doesn’t want to appear too eager.

Katie sits up a little straighter at that, the teasing smile slipping off her face. “I finished with that feather last night,” she says.

Draco keeps his expression neutral as he recorks the jug and sets it aside, and puts the measuring cup into the sink. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“I learnt that whoever’s doing this is using some very, very powerful magic, first off,” she says. “That’s why I wanted to discuss this with you in person, rather than sending an owl. I want you to understand how serious this is so you can make sure that Harry understands he’s probably best off turning this case over to the Unspeakables.”

Draco can feel his hands grow unsteady in the way that means they’ll start shaking if he doesn’t do something about it. Busy. He needs to keep them busy. He picks up the tin of Adder’s forks he’d set out and opens it, upending it over the cauldron so they can soak in the vinegar. “What have you found out about it?” he asks, keeping his eyes on what he’s doing.

“Unfortunately, nothing concrete,” she says, and it’s like a bucket of cold water. The flicker of hope he’d kept burning since dropping off the feather at her Alchemy lab fizzles and dies, and the sudden loss of it is nearly painful. “But hopefully some of what I’ve learned will give help Harry narrow his focus of investigation.”

“What have you found?” Draco asks again. It comes out sharper this time, and he tempers his words by adding, “Perhaps something you’ve discovered will give me ideas for further testing, should I be given another feather myself.”

“Well, as I said before, it’s a powerful magic, likely a very old spell,” Katie says, her voice taking on a brisk and businesslike tone. “The caster won’t necessarily be a pureblood, but it’ll be someone whose family tree shows a long line of wizards. This won’t be something found in an ordinary spellbook. Maybe you’ll get lucky and come across it in something old and rare, but more likely it’s a spell of the sort that’s kept to one’s own family.”

Draco nods. He’d been rather afraid of that. “And that’s if it’s written down at all,” he sighs. There are a handful of powerful spells that exist only in his and his parents’ minds, passed down through the Malfoy line, and several more that he’d got from the Blacks. Most old wizarding families have their own.

“Exactly,” Katie says. “But at least that eliminates most of the more recent or readily available spellbooks.”

“That’s true,” Draco says. He’ll probably still read through the ones he’s amassed so far, just to be sure there’s nothing in there, but it’s good to have a clearer direction of where to look.

“I was also able to trigger a reversal of the transformation, reverting the feather into…” She pauses, screws up her face, “...well, its original organic material.” She produces a corked vial wrapped in strong Preservation Charms and hands it over, and Draco takes it. About half an ounce of bloody sludge puddles in the bottom. “I’m assuming the Aurors have already identified the victim from whom this came, but in case they haven’t.” She shrugs. “And I figured, open investigation and all that,” She twirls one hand expansively. “I’d feel better not having that sort of evidence lying about my lab.”

“That’s quite understandable. And very much appreciated,” Draco says. He puts the vial into the cabinet above his work table. He’ll dispose of it as soon as Katie leaves. He doesn’t need to leave this sort of evidence lying about his lab, either.

“But see, here’s the interesting thing about it,” Katie says, swinging her feet idly. “When I reversed the transformation, I didn’t get a sense that it was Dark Arts.”

“Well, the spell is triggered by the full moon. The feather’s already been transformed, so the magic in it would have gone inert,” Draco says.

“Yes, but Draco, I said I didn’t get anything Dark, not that I didn’t get anything at all,” Katie says. “You know how Dark Arts tends to leave a residue. When I undid the transformation, I should have got a hint of something when the magics released. There was more than enough.”

That gives Draco pause. Katie’s the only person he’s ever met who’s got an even better sense for magic than he has. It’s why she’s done so well as an Alchemist. Transmutive Magics are 75% hard theory and arithmancy, and 25% simply having a sense for what feels right.

“Nothing at all?” he asks, frowning. Not that he doesn’t trust Katie’s ability to sense magic. But he can’t imagine how this curse _isn’t_ Dark Arts.

“Not even a hint,” Katie tells him. “But the magic that did come off it was…” She pauses, shakes her head. “I can’t even begin to describe it. But I could show you, if you’d like?” She twirls her wand between her fingers. “Legilimency, if you trust me?”

“I trust you,” Draco says. “And if you try to get into my head, I know exactly how to force you right back out that’ll leave you with a screaming migraine for the rest of the day.”

Katie rolls her eyes at that, and Draco takes a few moments to ready himself. He’s not at all concerned about her seeing something she shouldn’t. He’s a skilled _Occlumens_ ; for all that his studies were involuntary, they were certainly effective. Gaining the ability to keep his Aunt Bellatrix out of his head worked extremely well so far as motivation went. She had a habit of waiting until he was distracted—the dinner table was a favourite of hers, because then there was an audience—and then slipping into his mind and casually announcing whatever of his thoughts she’d gleaned.

It’s given him a healthy fear of having other people in his head, but if all goes well, Katie won’t be. He’s going to be going into her mind, but he still takes the time to put up his own mental walls so that there’s no chance she can accidentally chase the connection back to him.

He exhales slowly, then nods to her. “All right.”

Katie sits up and squares her shoulders. “Go on, then. And don’t press. A girl’s got to have her secrets, you know.” She smiles, but she looks faintly nervous.

“All right,” Draco says again, then reaches out and takes her hand, holding on while he whispers the spell and presses forward.

She’s opened her mind to him, and as always, the sensation of being inside someone’s mind when they’ve prepared to receive him feels like standing inside a fitting room at a clothing shop. He’s in a small space, isolated, but just beyond the curtain is a whole bustling space he can sense but can’t see. He can hear motion, muffled bits of conversation, and it would be so, so easy to lift the curtain, to take a peek.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, because she trusts him. He can feel it like a wide lake or a broad river, a deep and steady current beneath the rippling surface, choppy waves of uncertainty, and anxiety, and the fear that he’ll break that trust. He couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ , especially not now that he can feel how deep it runs, how pure it is. The curtain wavers and becomes a door, and the noise on the other side fades to a murmur.

_Ready?_

He feels the question, and has no idea whether she’s even spoken it aloud. His senses are all tangled up in hers, standing on the floor and sitting on the table at the same time, and the warm press of his hand to her hand to his hand to her hand to his hand spirals away into infinity.

 _Ready_.

The memory comes up. It’s not the same as a Pensieve. Those are crisp and bright, nearly indistinguishable from reality. The Pensieve works by stripping a memory down to its core, sloughing off all the feeling from it, the emotions and the impressions, until what’s left is as objective as a human observation can possibly be.

But this, reliving someone else’s memory directly, is far less precise. It feels wavery, and skips ahead and back a few times, blasting him with a dizzying rush of impressions, the song on the wireless, how she’s beginning to feel tired, how she’s craving something sweet even though she just ate dinner, isn’t there a packet of biscuits _I’m almost certain there are some_ —her father is—and don’t forget that tomorrow—haven’t gone—and it’s important to—bed is going to feel so nice, soft pillow and warm blankets, and that thought’s buffeted by a strong wave of longing— _now where did I put that stirring rod?_

Then Katie wrestles it back under control, regains her focus, and does her best to strip out everything _that’s not important_. The sound of the wireless fades, the tiredness, and then she drops the feather into a large glass beaker and waves her wand, reciting spells—the memory skips forward, _this takes a long time and isn’t important, you don’t need to see it_ —picks up the feather with a pair of tweezers and holds it up, examining it closely.

It droops, wilting, and something drops back into the beaker. A single drop of blood, bright red against the glass bottom. Another, and another, and a small burst of triumph detonating deep in his chest in her chest in his— _I did it, it’s working now, I knew this would work_ —and then the feather runs into itself like melting wax and collapses into a soupy mess of— _organic material!_ —and then there, there, the magic coming undone.

_Pay attention, now!_

Like Katie said, it’s impossible to describe. It feels big, inexplicably enormous. Like the crash of thunder, but there’s no sound. Like being slammed with an enormous wave, but there’s no sensation. It’s everywhere, and then it’s gone.

The memory dissolves, and Draco eases carefully from Katie’s mind until he senses the link between them slip peacefully away.

“You’re right,” he tells her, drawing in an unsteady breath. He feels inexplicably bereft now that her mind is gone from his, and isn’t that strange? Then again, he’s never used Legilimency with anyone he’s actually liked before now. “That’s definitely a very old spell.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help than that,” she says. She seems steadier than he feels, her voice and her body language, but she’s still holding hard to his hand. “I’d offer to try more, if Harry’s able to get me another feather. But I wasn’t able to get anything from it until I reversed the transformation, and then…” Katie shrugs. “You felt it. I don’t think there’s anything more we can learn from doing it a second time.”

For all that the magic was strong, it was there for an instant and then gone again. And since the spell is working in reverse, unraveling into threads of magic that quickly disintegrate, any sort of diagnostic charms they might try to use to find out more detail about the spell will spit out rubbish results. She’s right. There’s nothing they can learn from performing it a second time.

“Anyhow.” Katie finally lets go of his hand and produces a tightly-rolled length of parchment and hands it over. “That’s everything I found out. I wrote out the full process, and some of it does get quite technical, but I’ve included explanations in layman’s terms as well.” She shrugs a little and swings her feet. “I assumed that Harry would want something for his case files, and I figured more information was better than less.”

“You assumed correctly,” Draco says. He puts the parchment away into the cabinet with the vial. “Thank you. I—I’m sure Harry will greatly appreciate your help.”

“Anytime. And speaking of Harry…” says Katie slyly, and Draco’s absolutely certain he’s not going to like whatever she says next. “He’s much more handsome in person than the pictures in the paper.”

“Oh good Merlin,” Draco says. “We are not going to gossip about cute boys like a couple of flighty first-years. Especially a cute boy who _happens to be my boyfriend_.”

“Ah,” Katie says gleefully. “You think he’s cute!”

“I—That—” Fuck, he can feel his cheeks going pink because, oh. He really had just said that, hadn’t he? He hadn’t meant to say that, but now that he has… Well. Potter’s not altogether bad looking, Draco supposes, now that he thinks about it. “Well I am dating him,” he says awkwardly.

Katie laughs. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I wouldn’t poke fun at you if you didn’t get so wonderfully flustered.”

He scowls at her, but it only makes her laugh again.

The bells on the door tinkle just then, and Draco steps to the side to see who’s come in. And oh thank Merlin, Zelda’s back, bringing with her a much-appreciated end to this conversation.

“Customer?” Katie asks, sliding off the worktable. She leans forward to see around the shop. “Oh, Zelda.”

“Zelda,” Draco agrees briskly. He touches his fingers gently to Katie’s elbow and ushers her out into the shop. “Are we still planning on lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Katie tells him, then smiles. “Hello, Zelda.”

“Hi, Katie,” Zelda says brightly. “How have you been?”

They’d met each other briefly the last time that Katie had stopped by the shop to meet Draco and took quite a shine to each other in the few minutes it took Draco to finish up with the potion he was brewing. On the one hand, he’d been glad of it. He liked each of them individually, and it was always nice to see the people he cared about getting on well with each other. But on the other, he has a sinking feeling about the pair of them joining forces.

“Katie,” he says. “It was very nice of you to stop by. Thank you again. And Zelda, I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

He leaves them to it, and goes back to where he’s left the Adder’s forks soaking in vinegar. He lights the flame beneath the cauldron and gets out the jar of crocodile hearts, fishes out two of them, and begins to slice them into neat slivers.

As he works, he thinks over the new information he’d gathered from Katie. Mostly he’s stuck on the idea that the curse on him isn’t a curse at all. Curses are exclusively Dark. And this certainly didn’t feel like it. And Draco knows that all magic exists in shades of grey, and though spells lend themselves more readily to one or the other, it’s the intent of the caster and the purpose for which a spell is used that makes it truly _good_ or _evil_.

So it’s not that he doesn’t believe that a good spell can’t be used for an evil purpose. It’s that he simply can’t fathom how the spell on him could possibly be used for anything good.

He’s still pondering it more than fifteen minutes later when he’s interrupted.

“Draco?” Zelda calls out as she comes into the back room. “If you’ve got a moment, I’d appreciate a bit of help with something?”

Draco glances at her. “What do you need?”

She holds up her necklace, the silver Star of David glinting in the light. He’s never seen her take it off before. She smiles a little sheepishly and says, “The clasp caught in my hair so I took it off to untangle it, and I’m having a bit of trouble getting it fastened again. Would you mind…?” She holds it out to him.

“Of course,” he says, going over to her. He reaches out and takes the necklace from her.

Zelda’s shoulders slump as the breath leaves her in a silent sigh, and Draco hadn’t realised how tense she was until all of the apprehension in her suddenly went flooding out. It’s as if she’s… relieved? But why on earth would she be—

And then it clicks together for Draco. Her suddenly trying to get him to take Sickles to Gringotts. Why she reacted like this when he accepted her necklace.

One of the things that’s always impressed him most about Zelda is how clever she is, and he should have known she’d put together the very specific timing of his absences sooner rather than later.

She’s been trying to get him to touch silver.

“You—” he says before he can stop himself, and she looks abruptly guilty, and it’s so ridiculous that he huffs out a short laugh. “You really are the worst liar.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says stiffly.

“The worst,” Draco repeats.

Zelda huffs and takes her necklace from him and fastens it around her neck herself. “Fine, all right?” she says. “I was worried. I thought…” She sighs. “Well, it does seem rather silly, doesn’t it? But you’ve disappeared around the full moon for four months in a row, now. And this last month you closed the shop. I’ve seen you try to work while you’re burning with fever. What else was I supposed to think?”

“Well, I suppose that’s a reasonable assumption,” Draco says. “But you could have asked me about it.”

“I didn’t think you’d tell me,” she says bluntly. “I’m sorry, but I honestly didn’t. Not with the anti-lycanthrope sentiments going around, and I know how you are. You don’t like to admit any sort of weakness.” She shrugs. “So I was hoping that you would pick up a Sickle in front of me and disprove everything, and that would be that.”

Well. She’s not wrong about any of it. “Purely out of curiosity,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “What would you have done if I had turned out to be a werewolf?”

“Helped you,” she says immediately. “I would have helped you. The way people with lycanthropy are treated is despicable. If you’d contracted it, I would have helped cover up your absences. Mentioned to people that you were just in the back room, brewing something important and couldn’t be disturbed. Or that I’d just seen you that morning. Of course I would have helped. I’d have done everything I could to help you.”

She means it. He can see how sincerely she means every word of it. Draco’s throat goes tight, and he swallows hard against it, because he does not deserve her loyalty.

He’s enormously tempted to tell her the truth. But instead, all he says is, “Thank you.”

The bells on the door jingle, and Zelda goes back into the front of the shop.

As soon as the door shuts behind her, Draco sighs and drops down onto the stool. He’s put her off for now, but if he keeps disappearing each full moon like clockwork, she’s going to get suspicious all over again, and he doesn’t want her involved. If she starts digging into this or asking questions, it might attract the attention of whoever’s after Draco. He still doesn’t know who’s targeting him or why, but he can’t take the chance of that person hurting Zelda.

Draco groans and rubs at his face. If he could be seen during his absence, even just briefly, that might be enough. But there’s no way it’ll work. He doesn’t wake up until the third day, and has no idea where he spends the other two.

His eyes catch on a jar of lacewing flies, and slowly he reaches out and picks it up, turning it in his hands.

But… what if he _could_ be seen during the full moon?

He’ll still have to come up with an excuse to be away for the majority of the time, but what if he got Potter to take a dose of Polyjuice and show up here for a bit, just to alleviate Zelda’s suspicions? He’s been planning to announce a meeting with a supplier on the continent for this transformation. It’d be easy to conveniently ‘forget’ something important, and have Potter-as-him pop into the shop for a moment to pick it up.

Draco sets the lacewing flies down. Even if he starts right this minute, he won’t have enough time to brew Polyjuice Potion. The lacewing flies need to stew for a full twenty-one days before he can begin, and he doesn’t keep any on hand. Polyjuice Potion is on the Ministry’s list of Restricted Potions, so he only fills the occasional order for it. And resents having to do so, based on the amount of paperwork that’s required for the sale.

But lacewing flies are used in a variety of other potions. They were one of the first ingredients he and David worked to find a substitution for. And then happily discovered that the substitution had one enormous advantage over the ingredient they’d meant it to replace: lacewings, once stewed, must be used right away or they rapidly lose their potency; the stewed lacewing substitute is shelf-stable.

And Draco’s got a jar of it in his secondary lab space.

* * * * *

Five days before the next full moon, Potter brings home another enormous stack of books.

Since it’s a Saturday and Potter hasn’t pulled weekend rotation this month and so didn’t need to go to the Ministry today, Draco took the Floo to and from work. It seemed ridiculous to make Potter drive him there and back, and he doesn’t know how to operate the motorcycle, and he refuses to take a cab by himself. So he took the Floo and as far as the neighbours are concerned, Draco simply never left the house today.

When he steps from the Floo at the end of the day, he finds Potter sitting on the sofa, half-hidden behind a wall of books piled up on the coffee table.

“What are all of these?” Draco asks, stepping over and picking up the nearest one, because they’re not books on curses, as he’d expected them to be. They’re not even wizarding books. They’re Muggle books on mythology, Irish and English and German and Japanese and Native American and—

“I’ve been digging into some old files at the Ministry in my spare time,” Potter says. “Looking for old cases that might match any of your symptoms—”

Draco looks up at him “You’ve found out what curse it is?”

“No,” Potter says.

“You’ve found more victims who’ve been cursed with the same thing?”

“Also no,” Potter says. “Will you shut up and listen, or would you prefer to keep making wrong guesses?”

“Go on, then,” Draco says, rolling his eyes, and drops the book he’s holding down onto the stack he got it from. The coffee table lets out an alarming creak and the stacks of books sway ominously. He takes a quick step back.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already put Stabilising Charms on it,” Potter says. “It’s fine.”

“Ah, there’s more of that no-magic-in-the-house rule, I see,” Draco says dryly, and Potter wrinkles his nose.

“No magic in the house _unless it’s necessary_ ,” Potter says.

“Or unless we feel like it, or it’s a day ending in the letter Y—”

Draco breaks off when Potter slings a throw pillow at him, and Draco catches it and throws it back. Potter catches it and jams it behind him. “As I was saying, I was looking through old case files trying to find anything that sounds similar to what’s happened to you. If it had, it probably would have been an Unspeakable case, but every few decades or so, everyone’s old case files all get shunted down to Filing, and then every century or so, Filing dumps all _their_ old files into Storage. So every department’s records are all down there together, and you said that Katie said it’s an old spell, so,” He shrugs. “I figured there was a chance something like this came through the Ministry before, and if it had, it’d be down there.”

“So what did you find out, aside from how paperwork flows through the Ministry?” Draco asks.

“I found a different case involving an obscure curse,” Potter says. “And part of the file was a transcript for an interview with a Professor Archimedes Arbore. He taught Transfiguration at Hogwarts, apparently, from…” Potter pauses and shuffles through some papers, “...from 1437 until 1481 when, and you’ll appreciate the irony here, one of his advanced students accidentally Transfigured him into a tree.”

Draco blinks. “No-one could figure out how to change him back?”

“Considering that Arbore was the leading Transfiguration expert of that time, and seeing as how he was made entirely of wood, no. No-one was able to change him back.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Draco says.

“Oh, it gets better,” Potter says. “At something of a loss for what to do with him, they planted him out behind Greenhouse 3 where by all accounts he flourished. He was out there for another 150 years, and then when they were clearing out space for what would eventually become Greenhouse 4, some lines of communication got a bit muddled and he was accidentally chopped down.”

Draco blinks. “That’s…”

“It gets better,” Potter says again. “When he realised what he’d done, the groundskeeper—a Mr Richard Caulifield—who happened to be a skilled woodworker, felt so guilty about it that he turned him into a table—”

“What.”

“—and put him in the Great Hall—”

“What.”

“—and that’s why the Hufflepuff table looks different than the other three.”

“ _What_.”

“Well, Arbore was the Hufflepuff Head of House back when he was not a tree, so when they accidentally chopped him down—”

“No, no. I heard you,” Draco says. “But. What?”

“I know, I know,” Potter says. “I couldn’t make this shit up.”

“That’s horrifying,” Draco says after a moment, once he picks through the sheer irony of it all.

“I know,” Potter says again, and sounds almost gleeful. “I’m so glad I got to tell someone this. I tried to tell Hermione, but she already knew. Apparently there’s a whole chapter in _Hogwarts: A History_ that’s devoted to notable faculty through the ages, and Arbore’s got a whole page for his story.”

“None of the other ones have been turned into furniture, have they?” Draco’s almost afraid to know the answer.

“No, he’s the only one,” Potter says. “Anyhow, sorry. I know that’s a bit off track but I had to share it with someone.” He flips through his papers again. “So, right, the curse they were investigating was the Narcissus Curse. A wizard fell in love with a witch, who didn’t return his feelings. So the wizard, being a complete fucking arsehole, instead of accepting that she didn’t feel the same and moving on, cursed her so that she could never fall in love with anyone at all. As a side effect of the curse, she was transfixed by reflected images of herself and would stare at them until someone else forcibly broke her line of sight.”

Draco eyes the stack of mythology books. “And would this Narcissus Curse have anything to do with the story of Narcissus, who fell in love with his own reflection and wasted away?”

Potter snaps his fingers. “It does indeed. According to Arbore, a lot of older spells are based in mythology. At the time written records weren’t as common, and so passing down the stories is how they passed down the spells.”

“And you think what’s happened to me might be based on a myth?”

“That’s the idea,” Potter says.

“And by finding out the myth the curse is based on, we can figure out how to undo it?” Draco asks.

“Well, that bit is unclear,” Potter says. “But more information is better at this point, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Draco says. “Perhaps it will give us a better idea of how the curse is expected to progress, at the very least.”

He leaves Potter to continue looking through the books, and goes into the kitchen to start dinner. He makes chicken cutlets with green beans and roasted potatoes, and chops vegetables for a salad.

Potter wanders in right as he’s finishing up and asks, “Anything I can do to help?”

“Your timing is impeccable,” Draco says. “Set the table, if you don’t mind, and I’ll make us up a couple of plates.”

They sit down and eat, and Potter keeps up a rambling monologue about several of the latest products George has invented for his shop so that Draco will know what he ought to watch out for at the Burrow tomorrow, and Draco doesn’t add much to the conversation but he’s grateful for the way it fills the silence. And honestly, he’s also grateful for the warning about the Cherry Chatterboxes, which at a glance are indistinguishable from cherry cordials.

“He got me and Ron to help him out with that one,” Potter says, spearing green beans with his fork. “Since the formula’s got a lot in common with Veritaserum and that’s a regulated substance, he didn’t want to get arrested for it. But rather than forcing you to tell the truth, it just encourages you to announce every thought that passes through your head.” He makes a face. “He got Ginny with it, and she spent the whole five minutes it lasted telling George exactly how she wanted to hex him for it. It was pretty inventive.”

“I can imagine,” Draco says.

After dinner, they retire to the living room with its mountain of books, and they begin to look through them, occasionally reading bits aloud to each other. They’re sorting through mostly in search of anything to do with birds. Draco reads about Prometheus, who was chained down and had his liver eaten by a giant eagle each day, only to heal each night. He scans ahead until he finds the story of Ischys, who had an affair with Apollo’s lover and was to have his eyes pecked out by crows, only the crow sent to do it felt sorry for it and didn’t and Apollo turned the crow black with the force of his glare.

“These Greeks were certainly a cheerful bunch,” Draco grumbles. Potter doesn’t answer, and Draco glances up at him. “Potter?”

“Listen to this,” Potter says. “In Danish folklore, there’s a story about when a king is killed and not found on the battlefield, and ravens eat his body. And the raven who eats his heart gains the knowledge of men and could do terrible things because of it. It’s called a Valravn.”

“All right,” Draco says, because, as with Prometheus and Ischys, there’s not much in common with his situation beyond there being birds in it.

“It’s this next part,” Potter says. “According to another account, the Valravn is really a restless spirit who’s looking for redemption. He can only fly at night, and eventually he drinks the blood of a child and transforms into a knight.”

There’s a long moment of silence during which Draco processes what he’s just been told.

“There’s a third version, where the Valravn is a half-raven half-wolf monster,” he offers. “That might, you know, the werewolf…?”

Draco snaps his book shut. “I’m going to bed,” he says.

“Malfoy…” Potter begins, but Draco doesn’t answer.

He puts the book back on top of the stack, stands up, and leaves the room.

* * * * *

Draco would have guessed that he’d dream about the Valravn Potter told him about. Perhaps chasing down a child, or transforming into a half-raven, half-wolf creature. Instead he dreams he’s taken the place of Prometheus, chained and helpless as an eagle tears into the tender flesh of his belly and devours his liver piece by piece. The hot sun shines down on him, and the blood on the eagle’s beak glistens wetly in the light.

He jerks awake with a gasp, the phantom echoes of pain still lancing through his abdomen and a scream trapped behind his teeth. He sits up and scrubs at his face with his hands, listening carefully.

The house remains dark and quiet. That’s good, at least, that he didn’t wake up Potter. He’d insist on making sure Draco is all right, and Draco’s still too rattled from the nightmare to put on a good front. Potter might sit up with him, might insist on making him tea, might put his arm around Draco and be a steady presence at his side, warm and comforting, and—

It’s for the best that he’s still asleep.

Draco slips out of bed and pulls on his dressing gown before he leaves his room, moving down the hall as quietly as he can. Potter’s door is ajar and Draco can hear him breathing, slow and heavy.

He goes downstairs and drinks a glass of water and looks out the window for a while, at the dark, quiet street lined with dark, quiet houses.

It’s strangely lonely. He knows he’s surrounded by people. They’re in all of those houses, and Potter himself is just upstairs. But everything is so still and silent that Draco might as well be the only man in the world. He watches for a while, and then an owl hoots and Draco closes the curtains.

He knows he’ll pay for it tomorrow—the exhaustion of his impending transformation is already dragging at him—but he doesn’t want to go back to sleep, and honestly doesn’t think he’d be able to if he tries. So he makes himself a cup of tea, and then turns on a lamp in the living room and settles down on the sofa. Potter must have put all the mythology books away in the library upstairs because the coffee table is clear of everything but the flower book and the book about the Scottish countryside.

Might as well get some work done. Draco shifts on the sofa so his back presses against the arm of it and he can stretch out his legs. Then he swishes his wand and he _Accio_ s the paperbound journal Potter had been making notes about mythology in as well as the pen he’d been using to do so.

Draco’s still wary of Muggle pens, but he can admit that it’s convenient to not have to keep dipping them into an inkpot. If he’s being _completely_ honest, he can also admit that he rather likes the way it clicks to make the nib come out.

He props the journal on his knees, flips past the pages filled with Potter’s scrawling handwriting, clicks the pen, and begins to work through some arithmancy for a couple of new formulas he’s been developing, and it’s a wonderful distraction. Draco’s always liked working with numbers. They’re predictable. Constant. Following the same steps will always yield the same results, and applying principles of Arithmancy to other subjects feels like bringing a little more order to a small bit of the world.

The sun has started to rise by the time Draco closes the journal and clicks the pen and stands up. Potter will likely sleep for a while—he tends to have a bit of a lie-in on Sundays—but it’s late enough that Draco can justify showering and then getting dressed. He’ll go into work for a bit, he thinks. Get some brewing done before it’s time to go to the Burrow.

Plan in place, he takes his empty mug into the kitchen, and then heads back upstairs.

* * * * *

The night of the full moon, he and Potter eat dinner together early and do the washing up, and then Draco sits at the table for as long as he can stand, browsing through potions periodicals while Potter reviews some case files for work. When the ache between his shoulder blades edges toward an itch, Draco stands up.

“It won’t be long now,” he says.

Potter goes up with him to his room and waits outside while Draco ties the Portkey on one wrist and a bracelet Potter had enchanted with several new tracking charms on the other. He takes off his clothes and wraps himself in a blanket and lies down on the bed, the sheets rustling beneath him as he wriggles around a little bit to get comfortable. Potter taps on the door a few moments later and comes inside.

“Ready?” he asks softly.

And Draco squeezes his eyes shut. “Not much choice about it, is there?” he says.

“I know,” Potter says, and Draco can feel the mattress dip as Potter settles beside him. Gentle fingers comb through his hair, and then a wand brushes against his temple. “I’m sorry.”

“Just do it,” Draco says. His back is hurting, and he wants all of this to go away.

And then Potter whispers, “ _Confundo_ ,” and everything does.

* * * * *

The tracking charms fail, and even though Draco is not surprised to wake up in the woods again, he’s still disappointed.

He wakes up mostly clean this time. There’s a shallow cut on his left arm that bled a little, but it’s firmly scabbed over, and more blood dried onto his back from the deep cuts on his back where his wings grew, and his left wrist blistered from where the tracking charms went bad. But that’s it. There’s no other blood on him. He thinks he ought to feel relieved, or grateful, or something. But right now he’s exhausted and cold and his throat hurts from retching. This time he threw up several large wads of what looked like wet leaves.

Potter’s sitting on the floor with a book propped open on his lap and his yellow mug beside his knee when Draco’s Portkey deposits him suddenly onto the bathroom floor. Potter is on his feet in an instant, book tumbling to the ground with a _thud_ , and then he’s kneeling beside Draco, tossing a towel over his lap and helping him to sit up, and Draco goes dizzy and weak with relief. He’s home now. It’s all right. He’s home and he didn’t die this time. He’s still alive.

Now he’s slumped forward, draped over the edge of the tub while Potter cleans the gashes on his back. He’s got a towel loosely wrapped around his waist to preserve what few shreds of dignity he’s got left in all of this.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?” he asks as Potter carefully sticks bandages over the wounds.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, tugging at Draco’s shoulder until Draco turns around to face him. “ _Draco_. Do you honestly think I can walk away from you now?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Draco says. He can’t look at Potter, so he stares at the pile of bloody black feathers Potter peeled off his back. They got another three, this time. Draco wonders whether it’s even worth trying to test them. Draco inhales and feels his breath shudder on the way in. He’s shaking and can’t stop. He’s not cold but he can’t stop shivering, and he hasn’t got any idea why. Last time, he nearly died. This time, he’s fine. Nothing even happened, he’s fine, he’s—

“Shit, come here,” Potter says. He slings an arm around Draco’s waist and hauls him close. “It’s okay, Malfoy. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I hate this,” Draco says. To his horror, his eyes prickle hotly. He swallows, and swallows again as his throat gets tight, and it’s no use. His eyes well up and his vision goes wavery, and shit. Fuck. He’s going to cry in front of Potter, he hadn’t thought this could get any worse but apparently he was wrong.

“I know,” Potter says soothingly. “I know you do.” He tugs Draco closer, rubs his hand soothingly up and down his arm. “It’s okay. I’m here, it’s okay.”

And there’s something about the warmth of him, the soft sound of his voice, that makes the last splinter of Draco’s composure crack and fall away. He draws up his legs and hunches in on himself, pressing his face to his knees before he cries in earnest. He’s always been a silent crier, thank Merlin for that, so it’s not quite as embarrassing as it probably could have been. But Draco’s never liked for anyone to see him like this.

Potter holds him through it, murmuring soothing nonsense and stroking his upper arm, up and down, up and down. And like a bad storm passing, eventually it fades, leaving Draco feeling tired and hollow inside. He sniffs and rubs his face against the towel tented over his legs, cleaning himself up as best he can. Which is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it, because he’s sitting here with the skin of his back still feeling vaguely tacky, despite the Cleaning Charms Potter had cast over his back to get the blood off.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Draco mutters as he finally sits up. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Sitting here next best thing to naked and crying on you. Merlin, how pathetic.”

“Hey, come on,” Potter says. “Malfoy, I’ve watched you sprout wings and go flapping off into the night stark naked, three times now. We’re past the point of embarrassment, okay?”

Draco laughs shakily. “Well, that’s true enough. But you weren’t touching me, then.”

“Sorry,” Potter says awkwardly, like he’s not quite sure whether he’s done something wrong. “Should I stop?”

He leans away from Draco, and Draco’s flesh erupts in a rush of gooseflesh the moment Potter’s warm side is no longer pressed to his own. He chases after it almost without thinking, snugging himself back up against Potter.

“No,” he says, staring at a broad smudge of blood across the white tiles. It looks very, very red. “No, I don’t mind. It’s… rather nice.”

“Good,” Potter says. “I, er. I don’t mind either, you know.” His eyes fix on Draco for a moment, then cut away. “I remember how it can be. When you’ve been through something… Touching someone else grounds you. I mean, there’s a reason people try to hug each other when something bad happens.” He inhales, then exhales slow and soft. “It helps.”

“Thank you,” Draco says. “It does.”

They stay as they are for a while longer, until sitting begins to make Draco feel restless. He shifts, and Potter’s arm falls away.

“I think I’d like to clean up now, if you don’t mind,” Draco says.

He’d meant it as an invitation for Potter to leave so he can get on with it, but instead Potter insists on turning on the water for him, testing it with his hand to make sure it’s the proper temperature, then helps him to his feet.

“Call if you need me,” Potter says as he steps out of the room.

Draco is feeling wrung out enough that he drops the towel as the door is still swinging closed. He simply doesn’t have it in him to care, and anyhow Potter’s seen him naked before now so what does it even matter? He’s tired and he’s got a bit of a headache from crying, and he just wants to be clean.

The warm water leaches away some of the tension Draco was carrying with him, and for several long minutes he just stands under the spray, lets it pound against his skin. He hears the door open again, and listens to Potter bustling around, moving things here and there and casting spells. Then the door clicks shut again and even though the shower curtain blocks his view of the rest of the room, it still feels emptier without the sound of Potter moving around.

Draco finishes his shower and steps out. Potter’s left him a clean towel and his wand, but no clothing this time. He brushes his teeth, then tucks the towel securely round his waist and goes into his bedroom.

As before, his bed is neatly made with one corner folded invitingly back. Everything else is perfectly in order and there’s no sign of blood. The curtains on the window are pulled back, and five crows are perched in the tree outside, all of them staring in. As Draco watches, a sixth one flutters up, landing on the windowsill. One of them caws, and Draco turns away.

He dresses casually for the day, in black trousers and a light grey knit jumper. He wonders whether Potter’s left for the day. It’s Monday, so Draco hasn’t got anywhere he needs to be today, but Potter will have to go into the Ministry for his shift.

He’s just gathering his dirty clothing into a basket to wash and contemplating what he should do with the rest of his day when Potter taps on the door. Draco drops a pair of socks into the basket and glances up. “Come in.”

Potter begins to walk in, then stops short, staring at the window. The six crows stare back.

“That,” he says, still staring, “is creepy as shit.”

Draco draws the curtains with a swish of his wand. “Did you need something?”

“Not exactly,” Potter says. “I’m about to head off to work. I just wanted to let you know that the Polyjuice worked. I went in like you said to grab the potion you left on the worktable. Zelda was with a customer so we didn’t have a chance to talk, so no chance of me botching my impersonation of you.”

“That’s good,” Draco says. “We don’t need to do it every month, but I might ask you to do it again.”

“Sure,” Potter says nodding.

He makes no move to leave, and Draco can see him mulling something over.

“What is it?” Draco asks him.

Potter takes a breath. “I thought you should know, I found the myth your curse is based on.”

That’s not at all what Draco expected him to say. “You did?”

Potter holds out a book, the same one that he’d had on his lap when Draco had come home. A folded sheet of paper sticks out of the top, marking the page.

“Yeah, I did,” he says as Draco takes the book from him. “It fits, Malfoy. Everything fits.”

Draco takes the book from him. It’s a collection of ancient Chinese mythology. He holds it, but makes no move to open it.

“Did you, erm. Did you want me to stay here while you read it?” Potter asks.

And Draco shakes his head. “No. Thank you, no. You’d best be getting to work, hadn’t you?” He glances at the clock. “You’re already late.”

“A little later won’t matter,” Potter says. “Really, Malfoy. If you want me to stay, I can.”

“Thank you, but it’s fine,” Draco tells him.

“All right,” he says, reluctantly. A crow calls out, another answers, and Potter casts another glance to the closed curtains over the window. “I should be home at the usual time.”

Draco nods. “I’ll see you then.”

Potter leaves, easing the door shut behind him, and Draco listens to the sound of him moving down the hall and down the stairs. Footsteps crossing the floor, a pause while he puts on his shoes, and then the softer sound of him gathering his things for the day. His keys clink sharply against porcelain as he scoops them out of the bowl by the door, then the front door opens and closes and the lock turns over. A longer pause, and then Potter’s motorcycle roars to life, and Draco waits until the rumble of its engine fades down the street before he moves.

Slowly, he sits down on the edge of his bed. He takes a deep breath. He opens the book.


	10. Chapter 10

The Legend of the Sun Crow. Ten crows and a celestial archer named Houyi who shoots them down one by one, until only a single crow is left. Potter’s right; this fits. The other victims, the arrow. That his transformations are based on astronomy.

Draco’s breath goes shaky as he exhales. He closes the book and sets it aside. Ten crows mean ten victims of the curse. Four are dead so far, Draco woke up covered in blood four times and saw the bodies after. But this time when he woke up, the only blood on him was his own, as far as he could tell. But does that mean that no-one died? Or that he somehow managed to escape getting blood on him?

He has no idea. He doesn’t even know where he goes, or what he does for the days he’s missing.

All he knows is that there’s a madman reenacting the sun crow legend, playing Houyi with a bow and arrow, and picking off his victims one by one. In the legend, Houyi killed all but one of the crows. Draco wonders whether this killer is the same and plans to leave one of his victims alive at the end of all of this. Or will he kill them all? Or will he curse nine new victims and start all over again?

Despite knowing the legend behind the curse, Draco still feels as if he knows nothing at all.

* * * * *

Draco can’t handle thinking about it. It makes his heart race and his palms sweat. But Occlumency has taught him how to compartmentalise his thoughts, and he puts the curse and the legend and everything associated with it out of his mind, goes downstairs, and then settles himself on the sofa. He takes a short nap, wrapped up in the knitted afghan and stretched out in the warm sunshine spilling in through the open window. The crows shift down with him when he leaves his bedroom and goes to the ground floor, perching in a line atop the low fence bordering his property. The soft, rough sound of their cawing lulls him to sleep and follows him into his dreams.

It never becomes a nightmare, perhaps because he never even falls properly asleep. It’s hard to tell because sleeping during the day never feels the same as sleeping during the night. Draco slips into a warm, dim space that’s soft and slow and a little fuzzy around the edges. There are birds around him, chattering softly among themselves, but when he opens his eyes a little while later, the crows are gone from the fence and everything is silent.

He stays on the sofa for a while, feeling lazy and indulgent, while he slowly wakes up all the way. Then he gets up and fixes the cushions and folds the afghan, then goes into the kitchen and makes and eats lunch, and as he’s doing the washing up, he stops. Just stops. The dish he’s holding drips sudsy water back into the sink, and Draco slowly sets it down.

Since his first transformation, he’s spent all of his time either working, researching his curse, or sleeping. On the rare occasions he’s had to do something that’s not any of those three—Sunday at the Burrow, Monday with his parents—he’s spent worrying and feeling guilty for not working or researching during those few hours. Every minute of every day has been one thing after another, one foot in front of the other. Do this, do that, do this other thing. Keep moving.

This morning nap he’d taken is the first thing he’s done just for him since…

Well. Draco doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s done something just for him. It was after the War, he thinks, during those long hot summer months where it was all he could handle to force himself to get dressed each day. He’d spent long hours sitting in the library, sitting in his room, sitting in the rose garden, sitting on the veranda, sitting in the drawing room. Not doing anything but sitting, occasionally reading or making stilted conversation with his parents.

And then he’d pulled himself together, decided to open his shop, and had been in motion ever since.

He’s not certain that time spent recovering from acute trauma can really be categorised as _taking time for himself_. But before then was the War, and the less said about that, the better.

It had been fine, for a time. He’d put in the hard work it took to make his shop a success, because he always assumed that he’d have decades later in his life to balance it out. But now it’s hard to believe that he will.

Every transformation he makes is like rolling a die. He’s likely one of six by now: four transformations when he woke up covered in blood and one when he didn’t. Those odds are bad enough, and they only grow worse with each month he survives. Each month he lives could very well be his last, and while this isn’t the first time he’s found himself in mortal peril, something about the methodical way this person is shooting one person per month makes it feel more imminent. Almost inevitable.

And if he’s going to die, it strikes Draco that he doesn’t want to have wasted every single one of his last days on work and worry. If he’s only got a small amount of time left, shouldn’t he try his best to enjoy it?

There’s not enough time to do all of the things he’d wanted to do in his lifetime. A matter of months isn’t long enough to fall in love, to get married or to have a family of his own. It’s not enough time to travel as extensively as he’d always intended to do ‘someday.’ But it is enough time to spend with family and friends. To slow down and take the time to enjoy the little everyday things that give life meaning.

That will have to be enough.

Today, Draco had planned to spend the afternoon in his secondary lab, working on some of his experiments. But it’s a gorgeous afternoon, with the sun shining brightly and the sky the sort of cloudless brilliant blue that just begs for a broomstick. And while Draco can’t exactly get away with flying, he thinks he’d prefer to spend it outside. He finishes washing his plate, dries and puts it away, then Transfigures the dustpan and broom into a trowel and a pair of gardening shears. When he first saw the back garden of this house, he’d immediately thought of planting it with herbs. And then between one thing and another, he’d never got around to it.

Well, no longer. Today he’ll get the beds cleared of weeds, and tomorrow he’ll go to the market on Diagon and buy some seed packets. Zelda should be making a decision about the new shop assistant this week, and if they work out, perhaps Draco can take an afternoon off without feeling too guilty for it, and he’ll spend the day getting everything planted.

Draco takes off his jumper before going outside. It’s a very light grey wool, and he doesn’t want to get it dirty. He folds it and puts it back up in his room, then rolls up his shirtsleeves as he takes his Transfigured gardening tools outside. It’s a bit cooler than he anticipated, but he heads over to a sunny patch near the back corner and starts there.

While he’d never showed any sort of exceptional talent for Herbology, Draco has always enjoyed it. There’s something satisfying about watching a plant grow, because it’s so simple. Press a seed into the soil, give it a little water, a little sunshine, and a little time, and it becomes something else. There’s a kind of magic in that, he thinks, in that slow transformation. There’s something beautiful in how mundane it is.

Draco works methodically through the flower bed, tugging up weeds and knocking the dark soil from their roots before piling them up in a heap beside him, and this is nice. The sun warms his back, and the breeze is cool enough to keep him from overheating. He ends up with three heaps of them by the time he finishes with that bed and moves on to the next.

It’s easy work, and Draco lets his mind drift a bit as he weeds. The Occlumency partitions had dissolved while he slept, but his thoughts remain settled. He might walk down to the shops after this. Pick up some wine, and there’s that little place that Potter insisted on getting dinner from one night, bringing home several foil containers, one with curry and another of rice, and one with crispy dumplings folded into pointy triangles. Those, Draco had been tempted to try, and honestly it all smelled amazing. But no amount of cajoling from Potter had convinced Draco, and he’d ended up eating the last portion of beef and vegetable stew he’d made two nights before.

But Potter had clearly enjoyed it, so Draco thinks it’ll be a nice surprise for him to come home to. He really should go to the grocery store, since they’d missed their market day this week and the refrigerator is starting to look a little bare. But Draco has to go to the market on Diagon for seeds tomorrow anyhow, he’ll buy enough veg to get them through the end of the week. They should be able to stretch their supplies until next Sunday morning.

“Hello, there!”

Draco startles and looks up, squinting a little against the sunshine. His neighbour, the woman with the baby, is leaning over the low fence between their properties, smiling cheerfully. As if she’s genuinely glad to see him, which is odd because the only conversation they’ve had so far had Potter as a buffer between them.

“Hello,” he says cautiously. He doesn’t see the baby.

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” she comments cheerfully.

“It is,” he says.

She smiles at him again and tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, this is quite embarrassing, but I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”

“Draco.” He’s very aware how wizarding his name sounds, so he adds, “My mother has always been very interested in astronomy.”

“Ah yes, Draco, that’s right. I believe Harry mentioned that,” she says. “I’m Alicia Field.” She stretches one hand down, and he brushes the dirt from his palm on the thigh of his trousers before he reaches up to shake it, and the world doesn’t come to an end when he touches a Muggle. He’s momentarily stunned because her hand feels perfectly ordinary. “Have we properly met before? I don’t believe we have. I’ve spoken to Harry a few times, and seen you two together, but never just us. How funny, isn’t it, that you’ve been living here for a couple of months and we’ve never spoken before now.”

He sits back on his heels. “I work a lot,” he says. He feels the ridiculous urge to unroll his left sleeve and hide his Mark. He says, “I’m quite busy.”

“In a shop, right? I believe Harry mentioned you work in a shop.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Draco says. He’s tempted to correct her and say that he _owns_ a shop. But working in a shop isn’t very interesting, whereas owning a shop is. She might ask questions about what sort of shop he owns, and he’s not certain whether Muggle apothecaries sell the same sorts of things that wizarding ones do, so it’s for the best if he doesn’t have to explain anything.

“Well, it’s nice that you’ve got some time off,” she says, then looks around his garden. “What are you planning to put into those beds?”

“Herbs,” Draco says. “Lamb’s ear, and dill weed, and rosemary, and peppermint to start with, I think. I might put in a few catmint plants. Maybe some tarragon or thyme.”

“Ah,” Mrs Field says, looking over his garden beds again as if she’s laying out all the plants in her mind. “You like to cook, I take it?”

“Yes,” he says, and the single word falls flat and awkward. Hurriedly, he adds, “Which is a good thing since ‘cooking’ to Harry is heating up leftovers or picking up takeaway.”

“Well it’s a good thing he’s got you to take care of him, then, isn’t it?” she says with a laugh, and Draco can feel his cheeks going pink. “I’m surprised you haven’t got basil on your list.”

“Oh,” he says. Not many potions call for basil. But quite a lot of cooking does. “I suppose I should add some of that.”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” Mrs Field says. “I’ve got a couple of very nice basil plants. I’ll bring you a few clippings.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Draco says. “Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

“I’ll bring them over before you go inside,” she says, then looks at her own garden. “Well, I’d best get on with it. I haven’t got very long.”

She moves away from the fence, and Draco bends back over the flower bed, and they work in silence for a while. A jay shows up when Draco’s partway through the second bed. It perches on the fence and watches him as he works his way down, piling weeds and sticks shed from the elm tree as he goes. He’s uncertain what he should do with those heaps. He’ll ask Potter where to dispose of them later, otherwise he’ll come back out once it’s dark and Vanish the lot of them.

The sudden flapping of the jay taking flight interrupts Draco’s thoughts a moment before Mrs Field says, “Oh, here, Draco. Before I forget.”

Draco looks up to see Mrs Field holding several leafy clippings of basil. She passes them over the fence, and Draco lays them carefully aside in the shade where they’ll keep for a few minutes until he finishes up out here.

“Thank you,” he says, and she smiles at him, and the jay squawks from up in the branches of the elm.

“You’ll have to let me know how they come along,” Mrs Field tells him. “I can give you more, if you need.”

They work for a while longer. She fills up a watering can and goes around her garden, watering her plants, while Draco takes up the gardening shears and trims the shrubbery that’s planted along the side of the shed.

He’s nearly done when the little white device she’s got clipped to her trousers starts making a terrible noise, a staticky squalling.

“Oh, there’s Charlie, up from his nap,” she says, setting aside her watering can. “It was lovely to see you, Draco.”

She waves, and he waves, and then she goes inside and he turns his attention back to getting the shrubbery in order. After a while, the jay comes back down to perch on the fence again, lingering until Draco finishes up with the shrub.

Draco takes his basil clippings inside, arranges them in a juice glass which he fills up parway with some water, and sets it on the windowsill above the sink where it will get plenty of sunshine.

Most of the afternoon has passed by, but he’s got enough time to get to the shops and then home again before Potter. He washes his hands and spells the dirt from his trousers and rolls his sleeves back down. The sun had vanished behind a thick layer of clouds, and the last fifteen minutes or so that he’d been outside had been chilly enough that he’d been tempted to sneak a Warming Charm when Mrs Field’s back was turned.

Draco glances at where Potter’s left one of his jumpers draped temptingly over the back of a chair at the dining table. For all that they look a bit silly, they also look quite warm and cosy. He’s tempted to borrow it for the trip to the shops just to save himself a trip upstairs, but no, that would be strange, wouldn’t it? After all, the idea of Potter borrowing Draco’s clothes is…

Draco hesitates. Well, he supposes he wouldn’t mind it all that much, now that he thinks about it. But something about doing it still feels wrong, like he’d be overstepping his place. He goes upstairs to get his own jumper, then collects a few of the canvas bags they use for shopping and layers them with Lightening Charms, gathers his keys from the bowl by the door, and steps outside.

* * * * *

Draco was right. Potter is absolutely delighted to come home and find that Draco had brought home Indian takeaway for dinner tonight.

“I didn’t know how spicy you liked it. The man working there said that most people get it moderately spicy so I got that for the curry. And samosas, right? Those are what you got last time?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, practically beaming. “Thanks, Malfoy, this is really great.” He hesitates. “But what are you going to eat?”

“The same,” Draco says. He shrugs. “I decided I ought to try it.”

Actually, he’d tasted a bit of each dish when he’d first got home, before he’d stacked the foil containers on the table and covered them with a Stasis Spell so they’d keep warm. The chicken curry’s all right, but not particularly to Draco’s liking. But he also got a lamb korma, which is bloody delicious and he’s disappointed he made it this far in his life without having encountered it, and he figures the samosas will be safe enough, they’re fried dough and potato.

“All right, who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy,” Potter says.

“What?” Draco rolls his eyes. “This is something you like, I’ve decided to try it. It’s not that strange.”

“Malfoy, I’ve been trying to get you to try orange juice since we moved here,” Potter says.

Draco doesn’t trust the orange juice. It’s far too orange. But he shrugs and says, “Perhaps I’ll try it tomorrow.” He ducks away as Potter reaches a hand for his face. “Stop that—What on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to feel for a fever, hold still,” Potter says and nearly clocks Draco in the face, and then Draco grudgingly submits and allows Potter to press his wrist to Draco’s head because it’s easier for everyone this way. “Well, you don’t seem warm.”

“What on earth would a fever have to do with me deciding to try orange juice?” Draco asks, annoyed, and pushes him away. “Stop that. I’m _fine_.” 

“Okay,” Potter says. “That’s good. It’s just that, well. So far you’ve seemed very much to be a creature of habit. And that’s fine, that’s great. Some people are, nothing wrong with that.”

“Potter,” Draco says.

“It’s just that, it took almost a month before you’d let me bring a telly into the house.”

And to be perfectly honest, Draco still doesn’t quite trust that thing.

“You refuse to listen to Muggle radio,” Potter goes on.

Well, he would if they actually played _music_ , not whatever nonsense they’ve got masquerading as it.

“You get into a cab like you’re being held at wandpoint,” Potter continues, and oh Merlin, he’s beginning to count things off on his fingers like he intends to go on for a good while.

“I fail to see what any of those things have got to do with whether or not I feel like trying something new,” Draco says. “Get us a couple of plates, please?”

Potter opens the cabinet and gets down two plates, then holds Draco’s eye, reaches out, and very deliberately moves a stack of bowls one inch to the left.

Draco huffs a sigh as he takes the plates from Potter’s hands and flicks his wand at the shelf. The bowls shuffle obediently back into place and the cabinet door slams shut.

“Well thank god you’re still weird about the china,” Potter says. “You must be fine, then.”

“Make yourself useful, you arsehole, and open up the wine. The riesling, I think, will go nicely with this.” Draco touches his hand gently to Potter’s back as he squeezes by him. He opens a drawer and gets out spoons and forks and knives, waiting for Potter to see the wine bottle he’d bought. That should do nicely for a distraction.

He’s rewarded by a short burst of surprised laughter. “What’s this?” he asks, examining the label. It says _The Seeker_ in big letters, above a stylised illustration of an airship. It’s not exactly a broom, but they’re both things that fly so it’s close enough, as far as Draco’s concerned. “Did you buy this for me?”

Draco smiles at him. “Last week you bought me wine that had a dragon on the label. I thought I’d return the favour.” He passes Potter the corkscrew and adds, “If you like that, you ought to see the pasta I bought for dinner tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Potter takes the corkscrew from Draco, then sets it and the wine bottle aside as he picks up the package of pasta from the counter. He turns it over to get a look at the label, and laughs as he reads the words _Fresh Pasta to Charm Your Loved Ones!_ printed across it in bright blue. “Where did you even find this?”

“Same shop where I got the wine,” Draco says. “I have no idea whether it’s any good, but I thought you would like the label.”

Between them they polish off the samosas and the korma and the wine, and then Potter packs up the rest of the curry and the rice and puts it away in the refrigerator while Draco washes their plates and silverware.

After dinner, Potter spreads his files out on the table—a new case he’s working, by the looks of it, since Draco doesn’t recognise them—while Draco dices tomatoes and onions and garlic, then dumps them into a pot with some oregano, a bit of salt and pepper, and a couple of bay leaves. He’ll need to spend a few hours tomorrow evening brewing in his lab, so if he gets this done tonight, Potter will be able to heat it up for his dinner if he gets hungry while waiting for Draco. Otherwise, it’ll be easy for Draco to heat it up and boil some pasta. After spending a whole day hunched of a cauldron, sometimes the last thing he feels like is coming home and cooking dinner. He gives the pot a stir and then sets the wooden spoon aside, turns away and finds Potter watching him with a faint smile on his face.

“What?” Draco asks, frowning a little.

Potter blinks like he wasn’t aware he was staring. “Hm? Oh, nothing, just watching you cook.”

“And there’s something amusing about that?” Draco asks.

Potter smiles again. “Yeah, kind of. You know when you stir, you do it the same way you stir potions. Very precise clockwise turns.” He holds his pen like a wand and demonstrates, circling it through the air in front of him.

“Almost like my work involves quite a lot of stirring cauldrons,” Draco says dryly. “Imagine that.”

“Yeah, well,” Potter says, bending his head back over his paperwork. “Still funny.”

Draco shakes his head a little, then joins Potter at the table. He gets out a stack of forms he needs to submit to the Ministry to approve a new potion formula. He hates these things, they’re tremendously tedious. But for the first time, sitting here in the warm kitchen with Potter, the smell of cooking tomato sauce hanging in the air, Draco finds that he doesn’t really mind.

* * * * *

The following morning, Potter holds Draco to his impulsive offer to try the orange juice. He pours him a small amount, and then watches eagerly as Draco takes a cautious sip. Draco scrunches up his nose, delicately spits his mouthful back into the glass, and washes the vile taste from his tongue with several large swallows of tea. He dumps the juice in his glass down the sink.

“You don’t like it?” Potter asks.

“Your ability to assess a situation, add up the clues, and arrive at the correct and entirely obvious conclusion is uncanny,” Draco says. “I can see exactly why you’re an Auror.”

Potter ignores Draco’s sarcasm. “But it’s orange juice,” he says. “Who even hates orange juice?”

“Me, apparently,” Draco says dryly. He sits back down at the table and takes a bite of his toast.

Potter huffs and slumps back in his seat, disappointed. “I really thought you’d like it. Ron liked it when I got him to try it.”

“Yes, well,” Draco says. He feels an irrational surge of jealousy that Weasley’s pleased Potter by liking his stupid orange juice. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling—he’d spent years at Hogwarts hating Weasley for having so much of Potter’s time and attention—but it’s an unexpected one. He’d put all that nonsense behind him years ago, so he’s got no idea why it’s making a resurgence now. Still, he can’t help himself from saying, “He must feel a sense of kinship with it, seeing as how they’re both quite orange.”

Potter snickers, and it’s easier for Draco to let go of his bitterness. “God, don’t let him hear you say that,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Nonsense,” Draco says. “Weasley’s liked me ever since he found out I could give him a decent game of Wizard’s Chess.” Draco had barely, _barely_ edged out a victory, too caught up in the competitiveness to worry about how Weasley would take losing to Draco, because he was supposed to be making nice with Potter’s friends and making Weasley upset by beating him in chess was pretty much the opposite of that. But it wasn’t until he was sliding his bishop across the board to checkmate Weasley’s king that it’d occurred to him, and then before he’d had time to properly panic over it, Weasley had flicked his king over onto his back in a tiny commotion of flailing limbs and beamed at Draco. They’d spent the next twenty minutes dissecting the match while Hermione and Potter rolled their eyes, and Weasley had challenged him to a new game the following Sunday.

“Mm,” says Potter, “that’s certainly true. And I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart. I’ve been losing to him since we were first years, but no-one else will play him anymore so I’ve been stuck with it. For _years_ , Malfoy. Can you imagine how painful it’s been?”

Draco arranged his features into a careful expression of sympathy. “I can imagine. That must have been so difficult, losing over and over again. Poor Weasley, it must have been terrible for him to go this long without a worthy opponent.”

Potter kicks him under the table, because apparently he’s still a child, and then sulks into his orange juice.

And Draco smiles to himself. This is a good start to his day.

* * * * *

Draco makes his sixth transformation and comes home with an arrow sunk deep into the meat of his thigh. But he comes home. That’s the important part, that he comes home. 

Potter’s waiting in the hall again, and his relief at Draco’s arrival fades quickly into alarm when he sees the arrow.

“Oh god, Malfoy,” he says, dropping to his knees. He reaches out and gently moves Draco’s leg to see the arrow. “Not again.”

The arrow is stuck through Draco’s inner thigh, so Potter getting a better look at the injury involves Draco spreading his legs, and the pain of having been shot isn’t _quite_ enough to keep him from noticing how very, very naked he is right now. He cups his hands over his cock and grits out, “Towel, please.”

“What? Oh,” Potter leans up and grabs a towel and puts it over Draco’s groin. “Shit. Sorry.”

He reaches for his wand and taps it to Draco’s leg, casting a Numbing Charm, and Draco’s whole body goes limp as the pain suddenly drops away. Draco pushes himself up, grimacing at the way the raw wounds on his back peel away from the floor. It’s just as horrifying this time to see an arrow sticking out of him, for all that it’s happened before. It might even be worse this time. He’s in much better shape, a little more clear-headed now than he was the first time, so his mind is able to better focus on that gut-wrenching shock of oh, that’s not right, that shouldn’t be there, _get it out of me right the fuck now_.

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to go to St Mungo’s for this, are you?” Potter asks him, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

“No,” Draco says, then insists, “This will be fine, Potter. There’s no way this can be as bad as last time.” It’s just in muscle. Painful, but it’s not as immediate a danger as having an arrow in his lung had been. Potter will get it out, they’ll seal up the wound, Draco will take potions to help it heal quickly, he’ll take something else for the pain, and it will be fine.

“You just had to go and say that, didn’t you?” Potter grumbles. He’s got his wand in a whiteknuckled grip as he takes hold of the arrow and asks Draco, “Ready?”

Draco nods and takes a deep breath. “Ready,” he says.

And then Potter removes the arrow and the puncture starts gushing blood.

“Shit, _shit_ , that’s an artery,” Potter says, snatching up his wand and casting spell after spell, while Draco looks on in horror as the blood puddles on the tile floor and the wound keeps bleeding and that puddle spreads further and further, very dark against the white tiles, and why on earth did Draco have to tempt fate?

He doesn’t know whether the arrow had punctured the artery and was blocking it shut or whether Potter nicked it with the arrow’s head on the way out, but it doesn’t really matter, does it, because the end result is the same, and there’s so much blood. Something in the pit of Draco’s stomach turns to ice, and his mind flashes back to a different bathroom with blood and water spreading over the floor, and history keeps repeating itself, doesn’t it, Potter and a bathroom and Draco’s blood splashed over a white tile floor, and sooner or later his luck’s bound to run out. Oh Merlin, this could be it. He could die right now and the very last thing he’ll see is Potter’s face, his panic buried under sheer determination as he bends over Draco.

A part of him thinks, _Maybe you deserve this_. A smaller part of him thinks, _This is how it should have been, this is Fate straightening itself out again_. But the largest part of him, the strongest part of him, believes that Potter will save him again.

And he does.

One long and terrifying minute later, Potter gets the bleeding stopped, and there’s a terrible crawling sensation as things deep in Draco’s leg knit themselves back together. They hold their tableau for a moment longer, but the spells have worked and the bleeding’s stopped. Potter slumps back on his heels, and Draco lets out a long, slow breath.

“We have _got_ to stop doing this,” Potter says shakily, then very softly and very emphatically says, “Fuck.” He rubs his hand against his forehead, and leaves a smear of Draco’s blood over his eyebrow. “You are so bloody lucky I signed up for an extra training course at work after the first one. I am going to send my Field Injuries  & Triage instructor flowers. Jesus Christ. You are _so_ fucking lucky.”

Draco looks at the sheer amount of blood on the floor and nods. There wouldn’t have been time for Potter to look up the spells he’d need.

“Draco, I’m sorry, but if this happens again, I’m taking you to St Mungo’s. _No_ ,” he says as Draco opens his mouth to protest. “No, I can’t. I can’t do this again. I’ll take the blame for it. I’ll say I took up archery and mistook you for a hay bale, it doesn’t matter, I don’t _care_. But Malfoy, _I can’t do this again_.”

There’s something desperate in Potter’s tone that makes Draco shut his mouth and really look at him. He looks nauseated, and unsteady, and so scared. It throws him back to years ago, that same scared look, blood on the floor, and Draco takes all of it and puts it carefully from his mind. One of them needs to be strong right now. Potter just saved him; Draco owes him at least this much.

Draco very carefully shifts, folding his uninjured leg underneath him and leaning over to take Potter’s wand from his hand. He Vanishes the blood from the floor, from himself, and the smudge of it from Potter’s forehead. Then he sets the wand aside and puts his hand on Potter’s knee. He doesn’t know what to do. Potter looks scared and Draco doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Then Potter inhales unsteadily and visibly pulls himself together. 

“Christ,” Potter says, rubbing at his eyes even though he wasn’t crying. “You nearly died, and here I am forcing you to comfort me.”

“As if you could force me to do anything I didn’t want to,” Draco tells him.

He feels bad about his sharp tone for an instant, but then Potter cracks a smile. “Well, that’s certainly true. You’re the most pigheaded person I’ve ever met.”

“Exactly,” Draco says, and gives Potter’s knee a little pat. “And that’s saying quite a lot, isn’t it, considering you’re sitting right next to me. Now. Get out of here and let me get cleaned up.”

Potter blinks at him. “But your back…”

“Nothing I didn’t do for myself before I moved here. Go on. I’ve got it from here,” Draco says.

“Okay,” Potter says reluctantly. “But I’m going to be right outside. Call me if you need help?”

“I will,” Draco says.

He waits until the door shuts behind Potter, then sorts through the potions Potter had lined up on the vanity. He takes a Blood Replenisher, and one that promotes faster healing. He’s tempted by a pain potion, but he’s not familiar with some of the spells Potter used on it and he’s wary of the magics interacting poorly with each other. He’ll get Potter to keep refreshing the Numbing Charm on it. It’s for the best he do it, anyhow, since he was the one who healed Draco. A spell from him will settle more readily, and be more effective.

Draco’s a bit unsteady as he uses the edge of the tub to lever himself to his feet. Potter left his wand in here and, using it and the mirror, Draco manages to get the gashes on his back cleaned up and bandaged. He’s trying out a new Healing Salve this time. Last month, the gashes barely healed at all, leaving Draco with two thick scabs on his back.

He leaves the feathers and the arrow to soak in the sink. Then he gets into the tub and starts the shower. A minute later, he hears the door open and Potter moving around on the other side of the curtain.

The Numbing Charm is starting to wear off by the time Draco finishes up. He gets out and towels off, and finds that Potter’s left him a set of pyjamas folded on the counter by the sink, and Draco puts them on and goes downstairs to discover that Potter’s made him up a little bed on the sofa. He’s put a sheet over it and the pillow from Draco’s bed on one end, and piled up several more pillows on the other. He’s tempted to sit down—moving down the stairs hurt enough that the pain nearly overwhelmed the charm keeping it at bay—but he stares at Potter.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“You’re not going to work today,” Potter says. “I’ve already popped over to the shop and let Zelda know that you won’t be in today. I told her you slipped on the stairs and wrenched your knee, I figure you’ll still be limping a bit by tomorrow, so that’ll hold for an excuse. I double-checked the spells I used, and they recommend that you keep off your leg for at least twenty-four hours to let it mend, otherwise you could start bleeding again, and Malfoy, I cannot handle that. I can’t. So you’re going to sit your arse on the sofa and you’re not getting up unless it’s to use the toilet.”

“Well what if I need something else?” Draco asks. And Merlin knows why he’s being so argumentative about this. He hadn’t planned to go into work today, anyhow. It’s why he’d put on the pyjamas.

“You need anything, you tell me, and I’ll get it for you,” Potter tells him.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I called off.”

“Potter.”

“ _Malfoy_.”

They stare at each other, and then Draco huffs and rolls his eyes and gets onto the sofa because his leg really is throbbing and he’s a little afraid it’s going to give out on him.

“Merlin, you’re bloody-minded.”

“Pot, kettle,” Potter tells him, and helps him arrange his leg on the stack of pillows to keep it elevated before spreading the afghan over Draco, as if he’s a child being tucked into bed. “Now, what can I get you for breakfast.”

“Tea, please,” Draco says. “And could you refresh the Numbing Charm on my leg?”

“And breakfast?” Potter asks when he finishes casting the spell. “You’re healing. You need to eat something.”

Draco sighs. “Could you bring me some fruit? I don’t trust you not to burn anything else.”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Potter mutters, going into the kitchen.

“I notice you didn’t try to argue,” Draco calls after him. He shifts carefully on the sofa, casts a mild _Engorgio_ on the pillow behind him so he can sit up a little higher. He settles against it, mindful of the injuries on his back.

Potter’s hand pokes out from around the doorway and he makes a rude gesture at Draco.

“Which is just as well,” Draco goes on, “because you really haven’t got a leg to stand on, there.”

Dead silence.

Then Potter sticks his head around the doorway. “Did you just…?” He pulls the most exasperated face Draco’s ever seen and says, “Oh my god,” as he goes back into the kitchen. A moment later he says loudly, “It’s wonderful that you’ve still got your abysmal sense of humour intact.”

“My sense of humour is flawless,” Draco says.

“Yeah, okay,” Potter says. “You’re funny, I’ll give you that.” A pause. “Sometimes it’s even on purpose.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but he lets Potter have that one. Allowing him the last word is the least Draco can do in return for someone who’s announced that they intend to wait on him hand and foot for the rest of the day. And oh, if his past self could see him now.

Although, now that he thinks about it, his past self would likely be horrified at his predicament, cursed and depending on Potter to save him. Oh, and living with Potter and not hating it. Living with Potter and… rather enjoying it, actually.

It’s interesting how he never quite realised how lonely his life felt until he started sharing it with Potter. Sometimes, when he can bring himself to think about _Maybe after all of this is over_ , Draco thinks about going back to going back to his little flat and it doesn’t seem quite as appealing as it did when he first left it. He doesn’t want to stay here in this Muggle neighborhood, or here in this house with its Muggle appliances. It’s not even that he wants to continue to live with Potter, who’s turned out to be a much better housemate than Draco would have predicted.

But he can’t deny that it’s nice to live with someone. To have someone around who cares whether or not he comes home. Who will bring him tea and breakfast when he’s hurt. Draco finds that it’s more of a pleasure to cook for two than it is to cook for one. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, and even when they’re not talking, it’s nice to have someone here, simply sharing space. Even when Potter’s quiet, the house doesn’t feel quite so big and empty when he’s in it. This must be a tiny, shallow taste of what it’s like it’s like to have a long-term relationship with someone. That perhaps after the spark burns itself out, what’s left is a deep affection and never having to be lonely again.

And perhaps, when all of this is over and he’s still alive at the end of it…. Perhaps it might be time to starting thinking about finding someone to date.

But he should put this from his mind for now. Having a relationship with someone means having a future with them. And right now Draco’s not certain he’s got one of those at all.

Draco lets those thoughts go, jabs the pillow behind him with his wand and casts a charm to fluff it up, and settles back against it to wait for Potter to bring him his tea and his breakfast.

* * * * *

“Careful, now, ease off the throttle,” Potter says, holding tight to Draco’s waist. “That’s it, nice and easy…”

They touch down with a jolt that pushes Potter hard against Draco’s back, and Draco braces himself against the handlebars until Potter regains his centre of balance. The motorcycle bumps across the field as Draco applies the brakes, drops it down into first gear, and steers them slowly over to the shady spot beneath the oak tree where Potter parks every Sunday they visit the Burrow. He kills the engine, puts down the kickstand, and eases the motorcycle down onto it.

“That was brilliant!” he says as he dismounts, pulling off the helmet. His ears pop as the charm Potter had put on it so they could talk to each other releases, and he can’t stop smiling because that was bloody fantastic, a thousand times more exhilarating than flying a broomstick, and the thrill hasn’t faded yet.

“I suppose you did all right,” Potter says, taking off his own helmet, but he’s smiling too.

“All right, my arse,” Draco tells him. “I did so much better than _all right_.”

Potter has been taking him to an empty car park early on Sunday mornings for the past couple of weeks, and then after Draco got the hang of that, Potter let him drive on quiet residential streets for a bit after that. Today was the first day he’d let Draco fly it, and it had been every bit as thrilling as he’d thought it would be.

“Yeah, well,” Potter says. “I guess I’ll give you that. The first time I tried to take it up into the air, I stalled the engine. Twenty feet.” He swings his right hand down and slaps it against his left. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” Draco asks, feeling a bit silly for asking even as the words are leaving his mouth, because Potter’s clearly fine now. And news of a crash didn’t make the papers, so even if he’d been hurt, it couldn’t have been too terribly serious.

“Nah,” Potter says. “I was fine, the bike was fine. But that’s part of why I’m so insistent about all the protection charms when we ride. It could have ended quite badly.” He pauses to cast an Impervius Charm over the motorcycle so that any birds who may perch in the tree above it won’t be able to shit on it, then turns to the house, stretches, and tugs the hem of his jumper straight. Draco had talked him into changing into something a bit nicer today, and Potter had come up with this, a lightweight cotton jumper in a lovely cream colour that Draco could never wear. It would make him look washed-out and sickly, but it makes Potter’s skin practically glow with health.

Draco sighs a little bit at that, and Potter glances over at him.

“You ready?” Potter asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” Draco says. He looks up at the house. He’s been coming over here each week for long enough to know what waits for him inside.

“It’ll be fine,” Potter tells him, nudging Draco’s elbow with his own as they walk across the grass to the house. “Molly’s making chocolate cake for us. Just keep that in mind and it’ll make it easier to get through the rest.”

Draco nods, even though his nerves are more from excitement than from anxiety. It helps that this isn’t a party for him alone, though Molly had originally wanted to have a celebration for Draco’s birthday. But Potter had talked her into doing a joint birthday party for them. The timing works out a little better—just after the full moon in June as opposed to just before it means he’s not so exhausted—and sharing with Potter means that most of the focus will be on him instead of Draco. Though Draco’s become far more comfortable with the Weasleys, and even come to genuinely like them, he’s still very much aware that they’re Potter’s family, not his.

He follows Potter up the porch and into the house. As always, it’s like walking into a wall of sound. And it’s sort of funny how, despite the chaos, the set of Potter’s shoulders always eases the moment he walks through the door. His smiles come a little easier, and he laughs a little more, and something about him seems _lighter_ somehow. He belongs here.

Draco sets his helmet down as Potter shuts the door after them, then puts his helmet down beside Draco’s. And then they move into the living room where Bill is chasing down Victoire, who’s crawling at top speed for the kitchen. Percy is talking a thousand words per minute about Merlin-knows-what while George lurks behind him and pulls ridiculous faces, and Hermione is laughing so hard at something Ginny’s saying that her face has turned pink.

They barely make it two steps into the room before they’re noticed.

“Harry!” Ginny shouts. She runs up and tackles him in an enormous hug, and he bends back to lift her off her feet for a second before setting her back down. “Happy early birthday!”

“Thanks, Gin,” Potter says, laughing, and Ginny turns to Draco.

“Hey, Malfoy. Happy belated birthday.” She punches him lightly on the upper arm, which as far as Draco can tell is a positive thing, so far as judging whether or not she likes him goes. He can never quite tell with her.

“Hello, Ginny,” he says, then looks at Granger, who’s come up behind Ginny. “Hi, Hermione.”

“Hello, Draco. Harry,” Hermione says, then gives Harry an exaggerated once-over. “You look very nice today. I hardly recognise you without that tatty old hoodie of yours,” she teases.

It takes Draco a moment to work out what garment she means. Then he smirks and says, “You say that like there’s only one of them.” He nudges Potter with his elbow and grins at him, and Potter rolls his eyes.

Hermione laughs a little. “He’s got you there,” she says while Potter looks incredibly put-upon and grumbles defensively, “Well they’re comfortable.”

“C’mon,” Ginny says, taking Potter’s wrist and tugging him forward. “We’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What, is it my birthday or something?” Potter asks, pulling a falsely-astonished face, and laughs as Ginny tries to trip him, and Potter pulls her hair, and Ginny elbows him hard in the side.

“They’re like children,” Granger says, and Draco nods, forcing down a wave of jealousy at their casual affection and how easy it looks. That’s something that’s been happening more and more often lately.

Draco and Granger trail after them at a safe distance as Ginny drags Potter over to the kitchen and shoves him through the doorway.

“Charlie!” Potter exclaims, and then he’s embracing another red-haired man who looks familiar enough that Draco wonders whether they’ve met before or if it’s just that he’s clearly a Weasley. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“That’s the point of a surprise, you know,” Ginny says, hopping up to sit on the counter. “That you _didn’t_ know about it.”

Molly Weasley swats her backside with a wooden spoon and says, “Off!” She shares a long-suffering look with no-one in particular, then says, “Hello, Draco, dear. How have you been?”

“Quite well,” Draco says, glancing over at Potter, who’s finally stopped hugging Charlie. “And yourself?”

Ginny slides off the counter and jumps out of the way just in time as Charlie gives Potter a push towards Molly, who catches him in a warm hug.

“Hello, Harry,” she says, then gives Draco a brief hug and says, “Draco, have you met Charlie?” She aims a pointed look at Potter, who winces.

“Charlie, this is my boyfriend, Draco,” Potter says.

Draco and Charlie exchange polite hellos.

“How long until dinner, Mum?” Ginny asks. “Have we got time for Quidditch first?”

Draco perks up at that. He’s heard stories from Potter about Weasley Quidditch games, and he’s still feeling a bit enlivened from flying over here. He’d love to get back up in the air today. It’s a gorgeous day, sun peeking out from between fluffy white clouds, barely any wind. It’s perfect Quidditch weather.

“You’ve got an hour until the roast is done,” Molly says, and Ginny whoops loudly.

“Well, I’ll just…” Granger begins.

And Charlie catches her by the arm and tugs her along behind him as he heads for the back door. “Oh no you don’t,” he says. “You’re practically a Weasley and Weasleys play Quidditch.”

“But I’m dreadful at it!” Granger protests, trying to tug her hand free until Potter hurries up behind her and pushes against her back, out of the kitchen and onto the back porch.

“C’mon, Hermione,” he says. “It’s my birthday.”

“It’s not your birthday for another five weeks!” she exclaims, but she’s laughing and has stopped trying to get away. “Can’t I just keep score?”

They clatter down the wooden stairs and onto the grass, heading out into the field behind the Burrow. Potter and Charlie are chattering about dragons, with Granger interjecting questions of her own, and Draco trails along behind them.

Outside, the sun is bright and warm, and Potter strips off his jumper and drops it onto the ground, and Draco sighs. He can practically see the grass stains that will happen if it stays there. He scoops it off the grass and folds it, then pulls off his own jumper and folds it as well, then sends them both off to sit on the railing of the back porch with a swish of his wand.

Potter’s got on an old tee-shirt, a light blue-grey one that’s got a small hole in the armpit. One of these days Draco’s going to steal it from the laundry and fix that bloody hole. He bets that Potter won’t even notice.

Draco, meanwhile, is wearing a button-up, and already the warm sunshine is making him sweat a little. He undoes a couple of buttons at his throat, and then, after a long hesitation, he unbuttons the cuffs and rolls up the sleeves. His stomach is flip-flopping to have his Dark Mark on display like this, ugly and black and with a shiny raised scar over the skull where Balin slashed it with his talons. Dittany worked to heal the scarring on the rest of Draco’s arm, but it had no effect on the Marked skin, to Draco’s dismay. As if the thing wasn’t ugly enough before.

But no-one says anything about it, though Granger takes a peek. Potter leans his shoulder against Draco’s and slips his hand around Draco’s wrist, and strokes his thumb once, twice over the tender skin of Draco’s inner arm. He doesn’t quite touch the lowest coil of the snake, but the message is clear nonetheless. The smile Potter gives him is small and reassuring, and Draco bumps his shoulder back against Potter’s.

Ginny manages to round up everyone in record time, and soon the rest of the Weasley siblings plus Angelina and Fleur join them outside, and though Draco gets a few more glances, none of them say anything about it, either. Instead, they all bicker about who’d won the last game they’d played, and how many point they’d each scored.

Potter lags behind and explains the rules quickly to Draco as they all troop across the field behind the Burrow and over to the small broomshed. They’ll vote for two Captains, who will pick their teams and assign positions. In a game like this, where they’ve got several non-Quidditch players, any person who’d played Quidditch at school is ineligible for the position they’d played. Less than fourteen players means no-one’s Seeker, and they’ll have one Bludger in play and only one Beater per team.

By unanimous vote, Potter and Draco are elected Captains for the day, then Angelina fists her hands on her hips and looks over the assembled group.

“We’ve got eleven people here, who’s going to sit out?” she asks.

“Draco’s team can have Hermione as their extra player,” Weasley says. “She can barely hold onto the broom.”

Granger slaps at his shoulder, but she turns to Draco and says, “I really can’t. You’d best put me in as a Chaser, then. I think I’ll do the least damage, there.”

Draco nods to her. He can work with that.

“Your birthday was first,” Potter tells him. “I’ll let you have first pick.”

“You’re going to regret that,” Draco says, looking over his options. He snaps his fingers and gestures her over. “Ginny, Beater.”

“Ha!” Ginny says, shooting the rest of her siblings a very smug look, then comes up beside Draco and leans close to murmur, “Don’t you ever snap your fingers at me again.”

“Ron, Chaser,” Potter says right away.

They keep going. Draco picks George for his Chaser, Potter takes Bill for his Beater. Draco takes Fleur for his Keeper, and Potter calls Charlie for another Chaser. Draco takes Percy as his final Chaser, and Angelina gives Potter’s nipple a vicious tweak for letting her get picked last.

Then Bill opens up the shed and hauls out the brooms and they draw lots for who gets what. Hermione voluntarily takes the oldest and slowest, a battered and well-used Cleansweep 5. Draco ends up on a Cleansweep 7 and Ron nearly gets the lone Nimbus 2000, the best of the lot, but Ginny snatches it from him, mounts it, and is up in the sky before he can respond, and Draco _knew_ he’d made the right choice getting her on his team. 

Ron shouts at her, but he’s left with the Shooting Star she’d dropped and will never be able to catch up to her on that antique.

Fleur offers to swap her Cleansweep 11 for Draco’s 7. The top speed of the 11 is greater, but the 7’s manoeuverability and acceleration are nearly as good, and that’s what really matters for a Keeper. The extra speed will be of more use to him as a Chaser.

It doesn’t hurt that Potter ended up with the other 7, and the trade puts Draco on a better broomstick.

“Players!” Ginny bellows from up above. She steers in a fancy little twist that makes Weasley flip her a rude sign. “Mount your broomsticks!”

They take their broomsticks up, and good Merlin, Weasley wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Granger could barely hold on. She’s wobbling alarmingly and is holding her broomstick in a deathgrip. Fleur and Angelina both Charm sparkling circles of light into the air for hoops, Percy keeps the hard rubber practise Bludger in a firm grip, and Ginny Levitates the Quaffle.

They count down from five, and as they all shout “ONE!” Percy releases the Bludger and Ginny lets the Quaffle drop.

According to Potter, back when most of the Weasley siblings played Quidditch at Hogwarts, they took their games a little more seriously, treating them almost like extra training sessions. But now that the games are just for fun for all of them (with the exception of Ginny, who gets more than enough training with the Harpies) no-one really bothers with things like _rules_.

He’s heard the stories. So Draco’s prepared for some amount of chaos. However, he’s not prepared for Potter to grab onto the bristles of his broomstick not five seconds into the match and then go into a steep dive, jerking Draco down with him.

And that pretty much sets the tone of it. It’s a hectic free-for-all, full of blatant cheating and astonishingly creative insults. Five minutes in, and Hermione has retreated to the relative safety of the far end of the pitch to play as a second Keeper, covering the lowest hoop. George sets off a series of blinding mid-air explosions to disorient the players, and Percy catches George with a Stinging Hex right to the arse. Ginny, to Draco’s delight, commits more fouls than all the rest of them put together and scores 40 points by herself even though she’s not a Chaser. Fleur isn’t particularly good as a Keeper, but with Hermione up there too, they manage to stop most of the Quaffles from going through.

And Potter flies like Draco’s the only other player on the pitch. Half the time they’re competing just against each other, trying to lure each other into the path of the Bludger, or trying to mess up the other’s flying, throwing elbows and grabbing at the tails of each other’s broomsticks. Draco’s got the better broom, but he’s entirely out of practise and doesn’t have much of a feel for flying a Cleansweep, whereas Potter obviously does this often, so they’re about evenly matched.

There’s something about flying with Potter that’s always been better than flying by himself, be it on a broomstick or a motorcycle.

The game is over when Molly calls them in for dinner, which is probably for the best because by that time the game has devolved into such mayhem that even Hermione, who’d taken on the role of unofficial scorekeeper in addition to Assistant Keeper, has no idea who’d won. Between them, they’ve committed nearly every foul Draco’s heard of, and he’s fairly certain they’ve invented a few new ones. Especially Ginny, and after seeing her in action, Draco has gone from being glad that she’s on his team to being _relieved_ about it.

Draco’s barely back on the ground when Potter comes up behind Draco and puts his arms around him.

“What are you—?” he begins, trying to turn around.

But Potter tightens his grip and hides his face against Draco’s neck. The tip of Potter’s nose bumps against the tender skin behind his ear and he murmurs, “Stop. You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

Draco freezes. 

“It’s fine,” Potter goes on, and Draco suppresses a shiver. He can feel Potter’s lips brushing against his neck, the warm puffs of his breath as he speaks. “It’s just a few drops. Hang on, I’m going to get my wand out and spell your shirt clean, but we need to get you bandaged up before it gets any worse.”

“All right,” Draco murmurs, and waits while Potter shifts around behind him to get at his wand, then discreetly casts the spell.

“C’mon,” Potter says, slipping his hand into Draco’s and twining their fingers together.

They hurry back into the house and slip down the hall and into the toilet together, where Potter locks the door.

The tiny room is nearly too small for the both of them, but Draco gets his shirt off while Potter Transfigures a handful of tissues into two thick bandages. Draco turns, bracing his hands on the sink. Part of him wants to tell Potter to go, that he can take care of this himself. But it will be quicker if Potter does it, so he holds his tongue.

“God, Malfoy,” Potter says, gently tracing his fingers up Draco’s spine between the two injuries. “This looks like it’s barely healed at all.”

“I’m aware,” Draco says. The cuts scabbed over but haven’t healed at all beyond that. Several mornings now, Draco’s woken up with blood on his bedsheets and the back of his pyjamas stuck to his skin. The new Healing Salve he tried out hasn’t helped at all.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Potter asks. He taps the tip of his wand to Draco’s back to clean him up, then carefully sticks the bandages over the wounds.

“What could you have done about it?” Draco grumbles. He pulls his undershirt back on, then tugs the hem to straighten it.

“You arse,” Potter says, and kicks lightly at Draco’s foot. “I would have known to keep an eye on your back.” He notices a spot of blood on the front his tee-shirt where he’d pressed his front to Draco’s back, and spells the stain off.

“Oh,” Draco says, looking down as he pulls on his shirt and does up the buttons again. “Well, it’s never done it during the day before. It’s happened at night, but I assumed I was rolling onto my back at some point overnight and the scabs were cracking.”

Potter sighs a little. “Well, now we know.” He pushes a hand through his hair, and leans over to check the back of Draco’s shirt. “At least you’re fine now,” he says, then pulls a face. “Come on, we’d best go back out there before they miss us or they’ll start to wonder what we’re doing in here.”

“Go on,” Draco tells him. “I’m going to wash up first.”

Potter slips out and leaves the door open as Draco turns on the sink. He washes his hands, casts a few spells to freshen up, and then heads back out to the dining room where half the people are milling idly around and the other half are tripping over each other in the kitchen, trying to get dinner finished up and on the table.

Draco looks around but doesn’t see Potter in the dining room. When he pokes his head into the kitchen, and is nearly bowled over by Potter on his way out with a basket of rolls.

“Run, Malfoy, save yourself or she’ll put you to work, too,” he mutters as he goes by, and Draco snickers and follows him back out to the table.

Everything is ready and brought out shortly after that, and Draco ends up seated between Potter and George. They spend most of the meal deep in conversation complaining about the proposed changes to the process for having potion formulas approved. Halfway through, Percy, who’s seated across from George, jumps in and argues in defence of the changes. And Draco’s been listening to the pair of them argue for long enough that he’s half-convinced that most of the time Percy takes the opposing side just because he loves debating so much. He’s got to be. No-one can love paperwork as this argument would have Draco believe he does.

After dinner, they drift into the living room where the Chatterbox Cherries make an appearance, but no-one falls for them. George doesn’t seem all that upset by it, and they talk for a while until Molly, Bill, and Charlie finish cleaning up the kitchen. Draco ends up on the sofa with Potter. Weasley’s on Potter’s other side, and Granger is perched on the arm of the sofa beside him.

Once everyone’s in the living room, Arthur flicks his wand and a number of brightly-wrapped presents come zooming out of the coat closet and deposit themselves onto the coffee table, right in front of where Draco and Potter are sitting on the sofa.

And it takes him a moment to realise that they’re not all for Potter. One of them’s for him, and Draco doesn’t know what to say.

“Do yours first,” Potter says, hefting the box for Draco and setting it down on the coffee table in front of him.

“It’s from all of us,” Molly adds.

“You didn’t have to, really,” Draco says, and Potter shrugs.

“You can’t honestly believe we weren’t going to,” he says, and Draco gives him a look, because they’d talked about it and agreed that they wouldn’t exchange gifts. But, he supposes, explaining that to everyone else must not have gone so well.

“Go on, open it!” someone shouts, Bill or Charlie perhaps? And then everyone else joins in and Draco laughs and says, “Fine, fine,” and unties the ribbon, peels off the paper and lifts up the lid.

It’s a cauldron. Draco lifts it up out of the nest of tissue paper and then nearly drops it, because it’s not just _any_ cauldron. It’s one of the Enchanted Cauldrons Fall 2002 Dragon collection that he’s been coveting for the better part of a year. It’s the smallest size, and made of pewter, etched with an intricate depictions of several Hebridean Blacks. They’ve each got two small amethysts for eyes, and the one whose head is just under the rim of the cauldron has two small holes drilled through it’s nose, so that when the cauldron is covered to simmer, the steam vents through its nostrils.

It’s exactly the one he would have picked for himself.

Draco looks at the assembled Weasleys, who are smiling at him, and at Potter, who’s smiling bigger than all the rest. “How did you know?”

“Oh my god,” Potter says, rolling his eyes. “Did you honestly think I hadn’t noticed you drooling over that catalogue? We were going to get you one from the Spring collection, but when I owled Zelda to ask her which size and material you used most often, she told us about the stirring rod you ordered from them last autumn and how you love that thing an entirely ridiculous amount.” He shrugs. “So I contacted the company to see if they had any left over, and they did. They even gave us a discount because it’s from an older Collection.”

Privately, Draco would bet his last dented Knut that they offered him a discount because he’s the Boy Who Lived. But he knows money can be a touchy subject with the Weasleys, and even splitting the cost of the cauldron a dozen ways, it’s still a bit pricier than he’s comfortable with them spending on him.

Draco looks around at them, his throat going a little bit tight, and has never felt more like an imposter. “Thank you,” he says, hugging the cauldron more firmly against his stomach. “I love it.”

There’s a chorus of “Happy birthday!”s from everyone and one “Be glad it’s not a jumper!” from George.

Molly huffs at him and swats her tea towel in his direction. “I would never knit a jumper for a June birthday! Imagine having to wait half a year to use your gift.”

Percy leans over the back of the sofa. “That means you’re definitely getting one for Christmas,” he tells Draco.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron adds. “We wouldn’t be able to stop her if we tried.”

“And we know better than to try,” George puts in, earning himself another swat from the tea towel because he’s the only one in range.

“No, no,” Draco says. “I’m looking forward to it. I would like that very much.” Potter’s got one in a soft grey wool that looks particularly warm and cosy. Before the weather turned, he used to wear it on the weekends when he was lazing about the house.

He can tell that Molly overheard him by the way she smiles, and then George and Ginny are shoving the big stack of presents over to Potter.

“Go on and start or we’ll be here all night,” Bill tells him, adjusting his hold on Victoire. “I’d like to have cake sometime soon.”

Victoire clearly knows that word, and lets out an enthusiastic shriek.

“Okay, okay,” Potter says with a laugh, and reaches for the top gift on the stack. 

It’s a set of books on obscure curses from Hermione, and the second one he opens is a tooled leather wand holster from Weasley. Charlie gives him a set of black dragonhide motorcycle boots, and Angelina gives him two nice bottles of wine. One’s got a rooster on the label, and the other a horse, and, judging by the way Potter cracks up when he sees them, has got to be some sort of inside joke.

He’s still laughing about it when he picks up the next present, a small box wrapped in shiny green paper. When he tears off the wrapping and opens the lid, a sprig of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon and a single shiny bell zips up and dangles overhead. The bell jingles merrily as the leafy sprig dances around him.

“Oh, George,” Molly scolds. “What have I told you about testing pranks?”

“And certainly not Christmas pranks,” Percy says. “That’s not for another six months.”

George shrugs, utterly unrepentant, and the mistletoe swoops and jingles.

Slowly, Potter looks down from it. His eyes meet Draco’s and they exchange one look of perfect disbelief, and then Potter starts to laugh. He laughs so hard that he slumps over onto Draco, his forehead pressed to Draco’s shoulder, and Draco loses it, too. Because, good Merlin. Mistletoe. Draco knew it, he _knew_ there’d be something like this, and how bloody absurd.

Everyone else is looking at them as if they’ve lost their minds.

“You were wrong,” Potter manages to gasp, sitting up again. “It’s _summertime_ mistletoe!”

The sprig of mistletoe flitters around Potter’s head, jingling merrily, and he swats at it. It floats away for a moment, then comes right back, and Potter groans.

“George, how do I get it to bugger off?” he asks.

“Oh, Harry, come on now,” George says, grinning. “How do you think?”

“Ugh,” says Harry. “That’s what I was afraid of. You’re the worst.”

And then he’s turning to face Draco, lips parted, and his eyes drop down to Draco’s mouth for an instant before he meets Draco’s gaze. And for one frozen moment, Draco’s sure he’s about to be kissed. This is it, oh, this is happening. Potter’s going to kiss him. He leans in, and then Potter leans in, and then Potter smirks, flings himself in the other direction, and tackles Weasley into the back of the sofa and kisses him squarely on the mouth. The mistletoe vanishes in a burst of red and green glitter.

An unexpected knot of disappointment sours in the pit of Draco’s stomach even as he laughs along with everyone else. Because, oh. He’d wanted Potter to kiss him.

 _Oh_.

He’d wanted—

“Careful, there,” Hermione says, laughing. “Keep that up and I might just run off with Draco and let the two of you keep each other.”

“Wait, wait,” Weasley says, pushing Potter off him as Potter makes exaggerated kissy noises at him. “Can we trade? You can have Harry and I’ll take Draco.”

Potter stops clowning and looks at Weasley, wounded. “You want Draco more than me?”

“Of course I do,” Weasley says. “Draco can cook. You certainly can’t, and Hermione could burn water.”

Granger slaps at Weasley’s arm. “That was _one time_ that pot boiled dry, do you ever plan to let me hear the end of it?” She glances at Draco and explains, “I put on a pot of water for pasta, and while I was waiting for it to heat up, I was reading the most interesting book on…”

She’s still talking, but Draco can’t seem to focus on her words. His mind feels frozen, and he’s fighting the urge to look at Potter, because perhaps if he looks at Potter again, it won’t be true anymore. If he looks at Potter, perhaps he won’t want Potter to kiss him, and everything can go back to the way it was. And as long as he _doesn’t_ look at Potter, he can keep on believing that’s true.

Then Potter laughs, big and open. The sound of it flutters in Draco’s stomach, warming his chest.

And Draco looks at him.

“Excuse me,” Draco says to no-one in particular, and stands up and leaves the room.

He goes down the hall to the toilet and locks himself inside. In here, out of sight, the weight of his realisation suddenly feels crushing. He braces his hands on the edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s got red and green glitter in his hair.

“Oh,” Draco whispers to his reflection. His fingers clutch at the porcelain. “You’re in love with him.” He blinks. “You stupid bastard, you went and fell in love with him.”

He’s got no idea how he didn’t see it before, because he thinks it’s been true for a while. And it’s startling to think back over the last months and be entirely unable to pinpoint when exactly it happened. It’s like the frog in the cauldron of slowly-heating water, isn’t it, with him warming to Potter little by little until here he is, boiling.

“Fuck,” he says, then sucks a breath in through his teeth.

He needs to pull himself the fuck together. Then he needs to go out there and finish this evening, and then he can go home and have his crisis there.

Draco washes his hands, then dries them with a charm. He Vanishes the glitter from his hair. He takes a deep breath and unlocks the door.

“There you are!” Granger says when Draco can finally bring himself to open the door and leave the toilet. She’s lingering in the hallway, and he’s got no idea why she’s here and not Potter, but he’s glad of it. “We’re getting ready to cut the cake.”

He puts on a smile. “Mm, I’ve heard good things about that cake.”

“And I assure you that every one of them is true,” Granger says. “That’s one very nice thing about this family being as large as it is. Lots of birthdays. Not everyone wants chocolate, of course. Oh, what am I saying, you were here for George’s birthday. But Ginny’s up next and she always gets chocolate, too.”

They make their way to the kitchen where everyone is gathered. Molly is poking candles into the thick chocolate frosting of a cake. Potter sidles up beside Draco.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Draco murmurs, and then is saved from further questions when Molly lights the candles with a wave of her wand.

And then there’s singing and Potter and Draco blow out the candles together, and Draco wishes to survive this, and it’s not until the candles are out that Draco doesn’t know whether he meant the curse or Potter. Both, he supposes. Both would be nice.

Then Molly slices up the cake, and it’s every bit as good as he’d been told it would be, rich and moist and slathered with thick, fudgey icing, and every bite of it Draco takes feels like swallowing cement. It settles like rocks in his stomach, and his stomach clenches when Draco hears Potter laughing with Weasley. He’s got a stray smudge of icing at the corner of his lip, and Draco’s quietly dying inside and he’s got no idea how no-one’s noticed.

 _I’m in love with him_ , he thinks, and the weight of it stuns him all over again. _Oh. I’m in love_.

Potter turns and grins at Draco, and slips an arm around his waist. “So, was it worth waiting for?”

 _No_ , Draco wants to say. _No, it wasn’t. It’s huge and terrifying and I didn’t think it would hurt this much_.

“Draco?” Potter asks softly, concerned.

And his given name in Potter’s voice is everything Draco didn’t know he wanted until five minutes ago, and hearing it hurts because it’s just for the audience. All of this is for the audience and all Draco wants is to hear Potter say his name like that again, so softly and with such warmth behind it, when there’s no-one there but the two of them.

“No, it’s great,” he says, and puts the last forkful of cake in his mouth, chews and swallows and sets his plate down. “Really good. Absolutely worth the wait.”

He looks up at Potter, and Potter’s gaze slips a little bit to the side. “Oh, hey,” he says. “You’ve got a little… hold still.”

And then Draco freezes as Potter reaches for his face. He leans in close, and Draco has the ridiculous idea that Potter’s about to kiss him, because he’s touching Draco’s face and leaning in close, but he didn’t do it before with the mistletoe as an excuse and he’s not about to do it now. Back in March he’d promised Draco he wouldn’t do it, and that means he won’t.

The pad of Potter’s finger is soft as he brushes it against the corner of Draco’s eye, and then he leans back and shows it to Draco. There’s a tiny piece of red glitter. “Got it,” he says.

Draco smiles and rolls his eyes. “My hero,” he says dryly.

Potter snickers and rubs the glitter off onto the thigh of his jeans. “Well I had to,” he says. “Wrong colour. If it was green, I would’ve left it.”

Draco rolls his eyes again and has to look away. There’s a bit of a commotion going on in the living room, and he drifts after the others who go out there as well and, oh, how had he managed to forget this part of the evening? He remembers this from George’s birthday, where after cake they all gather for a family photo. Draco doesn’t want to be in it any more now than he did then.

Arthur charms the camera to take three pictures in a row—that way one of them will come out nice, he says—and they all arrange themselves in front of the fireplace. Draco tries to keep a proper distance between himself and Potter, but they’re trying to squeeze so many people into the photograph that there isn’t space. Potter shifts around behind him and puts his arms around Draco, and Draco goes tense.

Potter ducks his head and murmurs in Draco’s ear, low and intimate, “Pretend that you like me, yeah?” and Draco smiles and looks down to hide the way his cheeks are going pink and mutters, “Fuck you.”

The camera flashes, and Draco puts his head up and smiles again, and the camera flashes a second time, and then a third.

Draco holds onto his smile the whole time.

* * * * *

It’s dark by the time they get home, and Potter steers them carefully down the street and then turns onto their property where they’ve worn a path from the street back to the shed. They put the motorcycle and the helmets away, and then they walk around to the front of the house and let themselves in. Potter’s keys clink sharply as he drops them into the bowl, and then he kicks his shoes off and takes the bag of leftovers into the kitchen to put away while Draco takes off his own shoes, and then puts them and Potter’s under the little table.

“Oh,” Potter says, from the kitchen, and Draco goes in there.

“What?”

He finds Potter holding a small frame. “I guess that’s where Arthur disappeared to at the end, there. He was developing the pictures.” He tilts it a little, so Draco can see the photograph better.

It’s the first of the group shots they took. Everyone is smiling and waving, and there are Draco and Potter right in the centre of it, looking as if they’re in their own little world. Potter’s head is bent and he’s murmuring in Draco’s ear, and Draco is smiling to himself with his head ducked away. They look happy. They look in love.

“Well,” Draco says staring down at the photograph. “We certainly look convincing.”

Potter’s smile grows a bit strained. “Yeah. We must be really great actors. So, where do you want to put it? We ought to put it up somewhere. We haven’t got any pictures of us here.”

“The entryway,” Draco decides after a moment. Yes, he’ll have to see it every time he comes into the house, but unlike the kitchen or the living room, he doesn’t spend much time in the entryway so he won’t have to stare at it.

“Yeah,” Potter says. “It’ll look nice there.”

He still sounds strained, awkward in a way that he’s never been, even at the beginning of this sham, and Draco’s stomach clenches. He’s afraid Potter can see how he feels. The photograph is so obvious, how can he possibly not? It’s right there on Draco’s face, the way he smiles and leans back into Potter’s touch.

“Well,” Potter says after a moment. “I’ll go put it up.”

He leaves the kitchen and Draco watches helplessly as he walks away. 

Draco occupies himself by putting away the leftovers, carefully stacking containers in the refrigerator, then he folds and puts away the canvas bag Molly had packed them into, so that it’s ready to take back to the Burrow next week.

One thing he knows, the one thing he can count on, is that Potter’s a good person. He’ll try to be as nice as he can possibly be about this. He won’t say anything unless Draco forces the matter, and even then, Potter will let him down nicely. He’s a good person, and the best thing Draco can do now is pretend that everything is perfectly normal. It might continue to be awkward between them for a short while, but things will settle down again.

So Draco does exactly what he planned to do this evening after they got home. When he finishes putting everything away, he opens up the cabinet by the oven and reaches back behind the large pot he makes soup in, and pulls out a squashy package wrapped in cheerful yellow and gold striped paper. He takes it out into the living room, and Potter’s eyes catch on it immediately.

“Malfoy,” Potter says. “We agreed no presents.”

“We also agreed no magic in the house,” Draco points out.

“Bloody hell,” Potter says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Are you ever going to let me hear the end of that?”

“Probably not,” Draco says, then cocks an eyebrow. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me that you didn’t get me anything for my birthday?”

Potter stares at him, then sighs. “Christ, you’d feel like a right arsehole if you were wrong, wouldn’t you?” he says, but goes over to the coffee table and reaches under it, murmurs a _Finite_ and comes up with an envelope.

He holds it out to Draco, and Draco takes it and passes over his gift, and then they stare at each other for a moment.

“You first,” Draco tells him.

“Okay,” Potter says with a cheeky grin. “But only because my present is so much better than whatever you got me. This’ll save you the embarrassment of trying to follow it.”

“You arse,” Draco says with a laugh. “Open your present or I’m keeping it for myself.” Which, honestly, he was a little tempted to keep it for himself anyhow.

“Fine, fine,” Potter says.

He rips into the paper, letting it fall to the floor as he pulls out a forest green hoodie. He holds it by the shoulders and shakes it out to get a good look at it.

“What’s this?” Potter asks. “You’re trying to put me in Slytherin colours?”

“No, you tit,” Draco says. “You look nice in green, is all. It’s.” He gestures vaguely to his own face and feels absolutely ridiculous. “It looks nice with your eyes.”

Potter blinks down at the hoodie. “Oh. That’s… That’s really thoughtful, Malfoy. Thanks.” He folds it messily and tucks it between one forearm and his chest. “Go on, do yours now.”

Draco uses his wand to slit the top of the envelope, then pulls out a pair of tickets to the Quidditch International Finals: Brazil vs Egypt.

“But that’s….” Draco says, staring down at the tickets. “Potter, that’s two months away.” With two more full moons between now and then. “I might not…”

“Yeah, I know. But you don’t want to know how much those tickets cost me,” Potter says. “I went to a lot of trouble to get them, Malfoy. So you’ll just have to come back to me, won’t you?”

Draco looks at him, and the dread in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide, and he sees this gift for what it is. If they’ve got plans for the end of August, Draco can’t die. It’s the same reason Draco gave Potter something he couldn’t wear yet. He’ll just have to stick around long enough to see it done.

“Yeah,” says Draco. “I suppose I will.”


	11. Chapter 11

That night, Draco can’t sleep.

Shortly after they’d exchanged their gifts, Potter had offered to make Draco a cup of tea. Normally they spend a while on the sofa in the evening, Draco with a book and Potter going over case files with the telly on low in the background. But the idea of settling down for a quiet evening at home, as if everything is perfectly normal, makes a swell of panic rise up from the pit of Draco’s stomach until it presses sharply against his lungs. He’d pled tiredness from a long day and fled upstairs.

It’s not until after he’s upstairs and climbing into his bed that it strikes him that being alone in a dark room with nothing to distract him from his thoughts might not be the best place for him right now.

Dreamless Sleep sounds very tempting, and the only thing that stops Draco from taking a dose is that he hasn’t got any here at the house, and if he takes the Floo to his shop, he’ll have to go back downstairs and explain to Potter where he’s going. And he doesn’t think he can face Potter right now. He was able to hold himself together well enough, but once he was up the stairs and out of sight, the hasty mental walls he’d put up had toppled over, and the shock of it had struck him nearly as hard as the initial realisation had.

He’s in love, and it feels like flying and falling all at once. It feels like the first time he’d pulled off a Wronski Feint, elation and panic blurring together as the ground hurtled up at him, and Draco holding onto his broomstick for dear life, feeling as though it’s out of his hands and he’s just along for the ride.

Yeah, it’s sort of like that. 

Draco sighs a little to himself and turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. His eyes have begun to adjust to the darkness, and he can barely make out the shape where the ceiling meets the wall. He closes his eyes again.

It will all look better in the morning, he tells himself. He just needs a good night’s sleep and everything will look better when he wakes up. He’ll fall asleep and then everything will be better.

He doesn’t fall asleep.

After a while he hears the stairs creak, and then Potter’s footsteps in the hall. The bathroom door clicks shut and he can hear Potter going through his evening routine in there. Draco turns over and tugs the bedsheet up over his shoulder, and is desperately grateful that Potter’s come upstairs on his own. He has an unfortunate tendency to fall asleep on the sofa and then complain about the crick in his neck the following day. Most of the time Draco doesn’t mind prodding him awake and herding him upstairs where he belongs, but tonight he doesn’t think he can handle that. The only thing worse than lying here and trying to sleep would be doing so with the image of how Potter looks when he’s just waking up lingering fresh in Draco’s mind.

He listens to the rushing of the pipes in the wall as Potter runs the water, then the water shuts off and the door opens again, footsteps retreat down the hall, and then the sounds go muffled when Potter enters his bedroom and swings the door almost-but-not-quite shut.

There’s a long stretch of silence, then a quiet _clunk_ of the house settling, and then another long stretch of silence. Draco sighs and rolls over onto his side, and tries to sleep.

* * * * *

He wakes up all at once. It’s one of those disconcerting awakenings where the last thing he remembers is staring up at the dark ceiling as he tries to sleep, and the next moment he opens his eyes to soft sunlight streaming in through the gap where he didn’t quite close his curtains all the way.

Draco lets himself loll in bed for a few minutes as he prods carefully at his feelings for Potter. He was right; it doesn’t seem nearly so exigent in the light of day. Likely he’d been caught off-guard by the realisation, and then in his shock he’d blown it far out of proportion. Draco loves Potter. And that’s… well, it’s all right. It’s not a crisis. There’s none of the urgency about it that he felt last night.

So he loves Potter. So what? This doesn’t change anything between them or their situation. It will be exactly as big of a deal as Draco lets it be. He has control of this. It’s fine.

This certitude lasts through his shower, until he steps into the hall and nearly bumps into Potter, who is just leaving his bedroom. He’s still a mess of bedhead and threadbare pyjamas, barefoot and bleary-eyed, looking rumpled and soft and warm. Potter gives him a sleepy smile and murmurs, “Morning, Malfoy,” through a half-smothered yawn, and Draco’s overcome by a wave of tenderness and affection so thick it feels like water in his lungs, so painful he can’t breathe. It feels like drowning.

So much for this not being a crisis. Because this is. This is an enormous fucking crisis.

Draco stands there stunned all over again, and the only thing that saves him is that Potter, as he’s claimed on numerous occasions, doesn’t properly wake up until halfway through his shower. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door after himself, and Draco breaks through his daze.

He turns away and goes downstairs to start breakfast.

Down in the kitchen, Draco discovers that Potter has stuck the pair of Quidditch tickets to the front of the refrigerator with a ridiculous hedgehog magnet. He’s obviously Transfigured it, and the thing’s got big staring eyes and a rather terrifying grin on its little hedgehoggy face. When he opens the refrigerator to get out the eggs, the notices that Potter’s put the tickets under a Glamour to change the writing on them. Apparently, he and Draco have plans to attend the 114th Annual Broomstick Enthusiasts Tradeshow.

Well, he supposes it’s not entirely inaccurate. Draco laughs a little to himself as he gets out the eggs and bumps the refrigerator door shut with his hip, then bends to get out the cast iron pan.

He’s got himself back under control by the time Potter comes downstairs and joins him in the kitchen. Occlumency, it turns out, doesn’t work on matters of the heart. He can’t simply wall off his feelings for Potter, though he gave it a good try. But he was able to shunt it to one side, giving himself enough space from the worst of it to get himself through breakfast.

“Any plans for today?” Potter asks, reaching up into the cupboard for a couple of bowls, which he takes over to the cutting board where Draco’s left him a knife and several pieces of fruit.

“Hm,” Draco says. The toast pops up from the toaster, perfectly golden brown, and Draco puts it on a plate and picks up the butter knife. “I was planning on working in the garden for a while before it gets too warm out. I might go into my lab for a while.”

Potter nods, and gets the butter out of the refrigerator and passes it to Draco, who takes it, cuts off a pat and softens it with a spell before spreading it over the toast. He reaches for the spatula and moves back to the stove to flip the frying eggs, and Potter takes the butter and the butter knife, puts the butter away and the knife in the sink before returning to cutting up the fruit.

He finishes up and scoops it evenly into the two bowls just as Draco is sliding the eggs onto their plates. Draco pours the tea, and Potter gets himself a glass of orange juice, and they sit down.

“You sleep okay last night?” Potter asks after a few minutes.

“I slept fine, thank you,” Draco says. “Why do you ask?”

Potter shrugs and pops a slice of banana into his mouth. “You’re quiet this morning,” he says around it.

“Couldn’t you have answered me and then eaten that?” Draco asks. Nothing irritates him more than people talking with their mouths full. “Merlin, I’ve met goats with better table manners than you’ve got.”

“Ah, there we go,” Potter says, and _then_ swallows. Arsehole. “Never mind.”

Draco gives him a flat look, and Potter rolls his eyes and pops another slice of banana into his mouth.

“Do you do this on purpose?” Draco asks.

Potter shrugs. “Mostly.”

Draco rolls his eyes at Potter, and then takes a large bite of buttered toast, and ignores the way Potter snickers.

When they finish, Potter tries to help Draco clear the table, but Draco shoos him off.

“Go on,” he says. “You’ve got work today, I don’t.”

“If you’re sure?” Potter asks, but he sets his plate on the counter and edges for the doorway.

Draco waves a dismissive hand at him.

“Thanks,” Potter says. “See you tonight.”

Draco runs water into the sink so he doesn’t have to listen to the sound of Potter putting on his shoes and gathering his things.

“Hey,” Potter says, coming back into the kitchen. “If I can sneak out of work a bit early today, did you want to take the motorcycle over to your parents’ tonight?”

“Why,” Draco asks, glancing at where a sparrow has landed on the windowsill. “So we can give my mother a heart attack for her birthday?”

The way Potter looks immediately panicked is tremendously satisfying and goes a long way in lifting Draco’s spirits. “Shit, it’s your mum’s birthday?”

“Don’t worry,” Draco says. “We are going to give her a very tasteful pair of emerald earrings. It’s all taken care of.”

“You could have told me about it,” Potter says, and Draco can practically see the tension drain out of him. “I could have, I don’t know. Helped. Or something.”

“I had it all under control,” Draco says. “It’s fine. She’s my mother, so I took care of it.”

Potter’s got a look on his face like he wants to argue. But he says, “Fine,” and then waves at Draco and heads for the door. And Draco has the idea that he’s said something wrong, but doesn’t know what. The door shuts, and the lock clicks into place, and Draco sighs and turns back to the sink and squeezes dish soap into it, watching the bubbles froth up.

A few minutes later he hears the sound of the motorcycle’s engine firing up. He listens to the sound grow nearer as Potter drives along the side of the house, and then he can’t resist lifting the curtain aside with a finger and peeking out the kitchen window. The sparrow pecks at the windowpane.

“Go away,” Draco mutters, and the sparrow flies off, and Draco blinks. Well. That’s new. He’s so surprised that he nearly misses as Potter steers onto the street.

Draco watches until Potter disappears from view, watches the empty street for a moment longer, and then lets the curtain fall back into place.

* * * * *

By the end of the week, everything has gone more or less back to normal. It’s taken nearly that long for Draco to make peace with how he feels. But slipping back into the steady routine of the work week makes it easy to pretend, and then after a few days it doesn’t feel quite so much like pretending anymore. Working out that he has feelings for Potter felt like the earth shifting beneath his feet. And it’s taken a few days, but now Draco has found his footing again.

On Friday evening, Draco tolerates Potter putting on the Muggle wireless while they clean up the kitchen after dinner. And Draco can’t help but laugh quietly to himself as Potter dances a little in place as he puts away the silver, then slides on socked feet to the next drawer and puts away the spatula. Draco looks back into the sink before Potter can turn around and catch him at it. The woman on the wireless is chanting about looking _so crazy right now!_ and Draco watches from the corner of his eye as Potter strides over to the draining board in time with the song, picks up two plates, spins in place and goes striding off across the kitchen to the cupboards.

His movements are all small enough that Draco wonders whether Potter’s even aware he’s dancing at all. The thought warms him, that Potter’s relaxed enough around him to—Draco takes a quick peek over his shoulder—oh good Merlin, to shake his arse in time to ridiculous Muggle music. Well, he’s certainly not being subtle anymore, and Draco has to fight to keep himself from grinning as he rinses out the last pot and shuts off the water, because the idea that Potter’s comfortable enough around Draco to dance in front of him warms him even more.

Draco dries the pot and puts it away where it belongs as the kettle begins to shriek. Potter bumps Draco out of the way with his hip so he can reach the box of tea, and Draco elbows him lightly in retaliation as he moves away to get the mugs.

“Here or the sofa?” Potter asks when the tea is finished brewing.

“Sofa,” Draco says. They haven’t got that much work to do tonight. Potter wants to review the case files he’s made up for the other curse victims who’ve turned up so far, and Draco has a new book about astronomy. While he’s mostly given up hope of discovering the exact spell he’s been afflicted with, he’s still got some amount of lingering optimism that he might at least work out something of a timeline. There’s a blood moon coming up, and it makes sense to him that if the murderer plans on killing off the last crow, it might coincide with something a little more exciting than a regular full moon. Not that it’s guaranteed that Draco will make it that far, but still. Draco feels a little better knowing more information than less, even if ultimately it won’t help him.

Potter, on the other hand, is still convinced that if he digs deep enough, he can discover some link between the victims and/or the locations they turn up in that might indicate a pattern, some way to predict where the next murder might take place, or who the other victims are, or who’s behind it. He’s still convinced that he can save Draco if only he works hard enough. But then, Draco figures, Potter’s an Auror. He’s trying to work this out the best way he knows how.

“What I don’t understand,” Potter says nearly an hour later as he tosses a file on top of the stack on the coffee table, “is how there’s no report of any of this happening in the Muggle news.”

Draco marks his page with a finger and lets the book fall shut as he glances over at Potter. “They’re investigating the murders, aren’t they? You told me last month they’ve started attributing some of them to the same person.”

“Well, yeah,” Potter says. “Bodies found dumped in the woods without a mark on them, a new one each month like clockwork? _That’s_ been all over the Muggle news. I meant, how has no-one noticed these people turning into giant birds each full moon, going missing for a few days, and then turning up naked in the woods? It’s been happening since January.”

“Why would they admit to it?” Draco asks. “Everyone would think they’re mad. They’d be locked up, wouldn’t they?”

“But it’s not just them,” Potter says. “I’ve seen you transform and it’s not exactly subtle. I find it hard to believe that there hasn’t been one single witness to any of it.”

Draco shrugs helplessly. “Did you check the Ministry’s records for recent Obliviations?”

“Of course I have,” Potter says. “That was my first thought, that it was covered up by some well-meaning wizard who reported to the Ministry. And that might explain one or two of them, but if it’s happening to multiple people every month, there’d be an investigation. I’d have heard something through work.” He stares off into space, suddenly pensive. “Unless it’s being handled through the Department of Mysteries? No, transformation falls under the jurisdiction of Magical Creatures, Being Division. And that arsehole Howell would’ve definitely played it up, used it as something else to support his own agenda.”

He lapses into silence, still staring off into space, and Draco lets him think. He picks up the file Potter had tossed down, and flips it open to see information about the most recent victim. Draco hadn’t gone with him, but Potter had gone to see the body, as he’s done every time a new victim turns up. As with the others, there’s only a single puncture to the heart and the two deep gashes between the shoulder blades. Also like the others, both of them are at a loss to explain where all the blood came from.

Draco closes the file and puts it back with the rest. Then he opens up his book and keeps reading about curse breaking, and after a while Potter picks up the files and starts going through them again one by one, making notes in his journal.

Potter’s still at it by the time Draco finishes up his book without finding anything useful. He stands up and stretches a little, arching his back and rolling his shoulders.

“Going to bed?” Potter asks, glancing up from his files.

“Mm,” Draco says, biting back a yawn. “I am. Are you coming?”

“Nah, I’m going to go over my notes again, see if something shakes loose this time.” He picks up his journal and gestures vaguely with it.

“All right,” Draco says. He taps his curse astronomy book with his wand, changing the cover so that it looks like a book about Finnish history. He tucks it under his arm and tells Potter, “Don’t fall asleep here.”

“No promises,” Potter says, kicking his feet up onto Draco’s side of the sofa and wriggling around to get comfortable.

“I mean it. If you fall asleep down here I’m going to leave you,” Draco threatens as he picks up both of their mugs to take into the kitchen.

Potter snorts and doesn’t look up from his book. “No you won’t.”

Draco heaves an overly-dramatic sigh and stops by the back of the sofa. “You’re right, I won’t. But only because I don’t want to listen to you complain tomorrow morning.” He pauses a beat, then continues in his very best Potter-impression, “Oh, Draco! I am in _so much pain!_ If only I weren’t a giant bloody idiot and fell asleep on the sofa again—”

“Stop it, I don’t sound like that!”

“—especially after you warned me not to! Why didn’t I listen, because you are ever so wise—”

“Malfoy!” Potter protests, but he’s laughing.

“—and you are always right, and I should always do exactly as you—Mmrph!”

Draco breaks off as Potter lunges over the back of the sofa and tries to smother him with a throw pillow. He takes a quick step backwards, and Potter, who’d been bracing himself with the pillow against Draco’s face, nearly topples over the sofa and onto the floor.

“Behold,” Draco says, amused, as Potter scrambles to right himself. “Harry Potter, Auror Extraordinaire.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Potter grumbles, flopping back on the sofa cushions. Draco can tell he’s trying really hard not to smile.

Draco scoops up the pillow from the floor and drops it onto Potter, who shoves it behind his head.

“Good night, you arsehole. Don’t make me come down here and chase you up to your bed,” he says.

“Good night, Malfoy,” Potter says. “I’ll do my best to save you from the long and arduous trek down a single flight of stairs.”

Draco rolls his eyes as he heads into the kitchen, but because his back is to Potter, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile.

* * * * *

Draco’s seventh transformation is unremarkable, so far as the transformations go. Potter puts him under a Confundus, and then Draco flies off, and then he wakes up three days later covered in someone else’s blood. Business as usual, and isn’t that horrifying when he stops to think about it? He activates the Portkey to take him back home where Potter is waiting for him in the hallway again. This time he’s brought a couple of cushions up from the sofa downstairs, along with his book and a cup of tea, and Draco is so, so relieved to be home again that his knees nearly buckle.

Potter is by his side in an instant, steadying him. “Hey, careful,” he says. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“No, aside from being filthy,” Draco says, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his waist. Potter’s warm hands slip away, and he shivers a little. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Good,” Potter says, and exhales heavily. “Good, I’m glad. Just your back, then?”

“I think so,” Draco says. “Nothing else hurts.”

“Well here, sit down and I’ll get them cleaned up and bandaged,” Potter says, turning to get the things he needs from the array of healing potions and salves laid out on the vanity.

“I can take care of it,” Draco tells him.

“I know you can,” Potter says, handing Draco a pain potion. “But isn’t it easier if I do it?” He points to the edge of the bathtub. “Sit.”

Draco huffs a little bit, but he steps into the bathtub and then sits down on the edge of it so Potter can see his back. He uncorks the vial of potion and swallows it down, then sets the empty vial aside. There’s a slight tugging and the soft crackly sound of dried blood coming loose as Potter peels one, two, three feathers from Draco’s back and drops them on the side of the tub.

“Are we saving these for anything?” he asks.

“Might as well,” Draco says. “I don’t expect to find anything, but it can’t hurt to look.” He hasn’t got any better ideas for working out the curse.

It doesn’t take long for Potter to tend to Draco’s wounds. He cleans them carefully with the Extra-Strength Anti-Septic, and Draco tries not to cringe too much as it stings. His pain potion hasn’t quite kicked in yet, and Potter’s already got the Healing Salve spread on them and the wounds bandaged by the time it does. He casts an _Impervius_ over the bandages so they won’t get wet in the shower, and then steps back.

“There you go,” he says, looking around. He casts a couple of charms at the dirt and dead leaves Draco brought with him, then nods to himself. “I’ll be downstairs, okay? Shout if you need me.”

“I will,” Draco says. “Thank you.”

The door clicks shut, and then he hears Potter on the other side of it, gathering up his things. Draco waits until he hears Potter’s footsteps retreating down the hall before he sighs, and stands up, and turns on the water. It rushes over his feet and ankles, stingingly cold, and Draco waits for it to warm.

* * * * *

When he arrives at work later that morning, the potions lab is unoccupied, all the cauldrons cold and empty. In the front he finds Emily, the new shop assistant Zelda took on. She’s quite young, only just graduated from Hogwarts, and Draco has a difficult time seeing her as anything other than the curly-haired Hufflepuff second year trying to make herself as small and quiet as she could, half-hiding behind her Head of House as Sprout argued with Amycus Carrow about some perceived infraction on Emily’s part. And though Draco had tried as much as possible to keep from drawing any attention to himself, he still walked up and put himself between them to ask Carrow a question about, Merlin, Draco doesn’t even remember what it was about, but he thinks he’d heavily implied it was something to do with the Death Eaters. By the time he’d finished rambling, Sprout had gone and taken Emily with her.

It was one of the only brave things he’d done during the War, and he’d been so terrified that the following week when he came across Alecto Carrow _Crucio_ ing a fourth year Gryffindor, he’d turned around and walked the other way. Sometimes he wonders whether Emily remembers it, but if she does she’s never said so, and he’s never been able to ask.

“Good morning,” Draco says to her. “Where is Zelda?”

“Floo call with Henri,” Emily says without looking up from where she’s marking something down in the diary.

Draco frowns. “I just arrived here by Floo.”

“Floo call with Henri from the Floo at Dorothea’s shop,” Emily amends.

“Oh,” Draco says. “Well, I suppose I’ll see her sometime next week when Dorothea finally stops bending her ear.”

Emily shrugs. “Nonsense. Dorothea will break for tea and Zelda can slip away then. It’ll be this afternoon at the latest..” She sets aside her quill and looks up at him. “Did you need something from her?”

“No,” Draco says. “Just wondering. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

He goes back into the lab and consults the large chalkboard to see what he needs to brew today. Zelda had put it up shortly after she’d begun assisting Draco with the shop’s brewing so that they could list what they needed for the shop’s stock, along with upcoming mail orders and when each one of those needed to be sent off by. Draco had been annoyed by it at first, but by now he’s admitted that it’s rather helpful to have it all laid out plainly like this, and it’s easier to keep track of who’s done what.

It looks like they’ve received quite a few new orders since Draco was last here, and he turns to his store cupboard and begins to line up ingredients. He’s just barely finished getting out everything he’ll need to brew the first potion when Zelda comes in.

“Hello,” Zelda says. “How was Austria?”

“Exceedingly dull,” Draco says without looking up. “I barely saw any of it, other than potions labs and my hotel room.”

He leans over and opens a cupboard and gets out a plain pewter cauldron, then thinks for a moment, puts it back, and gets out his dragon cauldron instead. This potion will have to simmer for most of the afternoon, and Draco likes the way it vents steam through one of the dragon etchings.

“How is Dorothea?” Draco asks, partly because he wants to turn the conversation away from his fictitious trip to Austria, but mostly because he’s been gone for a few days and he’s wondering if he’s missed any gossip.

Zelda rolls her eyes. “Dorothea was asking after you, and was _delighted_ to hear you’d be back at the shop today. She’ll probably stop by in a bit.”

“Is it Mr and Mrs Hobbs?” Draco hopes it’s Mr and Mrs Hobbs. Due to a freak accident involving a malfunctioning Portkey, Mrs Hobbs’s mother is living with them until authorities can locate her house which, as far as anyone can tell, might very well have ended up in Antarctica for all they know. Mr Hobbs and his mother-in-law do not get along, and their proximity to each other has resulted in a rather spectacular series of rows.

“Oh, those two,” Zelda says. “I’ve no idea why they stay married when they clearly can’t stand each other.”

“Rumour has it that they signed an agreement when they opened the shop that if one of them breaks the marriage, the other one gets to keep everything.” Draco shrugs. “It’s that or sheer determination to out-stubborn the other. Who can tell.”

“Who indeed,” Zelda says as she picks up the jar of crocodile hearts he’d set out. “You’re brewing the Arthritis Anointment for Mr Samson?” she asks.

“I am,” he says, and takes the jar from her.

“Wonderful. I’ll start on replenishing our stock of Wrinkle Reducer,” Zelda says. She pulls out a copper cauldron and settles it on the iron stand.

Draco takes a box of dried lizard legs out of the cupboard above his cauldron and slides it down the worktable toward her, and Zelda catches it without looking and sets it aside.

The day passes quickly. Zelda leaves for a while to watch the front while Emily has her lunch, then goes off on her own break when Emily comes back. In the afternoon, Zelda puts on the wireless and turns the volume down low, and they talk a little bit as they brew, and almost before Draco knows what’s happened, it’s nearly time to go home.

Emily’s already left for the day, and Zelda won the coin toss for who got to stay in the back and finish brewing, so Draco’s slouched on the stool behind the counter, idly browsing through the day’s _Prophet_ and waiting for the last fifteen minutes to pass by before he can lock up for the night. He’s only waited on a handful of customers, and there don’t seem to be any more coming. Diagon Alley is unusually quiet today. Normally Draco would be fretting about making sales, but today has gone well enough that he doesn’t let it spoil his good mood. Slower days happen sometimes. He’s sure they’ll make up the slight deficit by the end of the week. And they’re about to hit the last-minute Hogwarts rush. He’s almost certain that Zelda will already have checked their stock and ordered them a little extra to see them through the end of August, but Draco makes a mental note to double-check with her anyhow.

The bells above the door jingle, and Draco looks up, ready to look busy and attentive, but it’s only Potter. He’s still in his Auror robes, and Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of seeing Potter in uniform. The somber blue-grey fabric suits him, and the cut of his robes makes his shoulders look broader than they are, and calls attention to his slim waist and narrow hips. Because he’s Harry Potter, though, he’s eschewed the regulation heavy black leather boots in favour of a battered pair of canvas trainers, and his left shoelace is untied. And something about it, the formal uniform and the trainers and _Potter_ , well. It makes Draco’s insides go warm and fluttery. Potter waggles his fingers in a little wave as he shuts the door behind him, and Draco’s smile is reflexive. Potter smiles right back, and Draco’s heart kicks against his ribs.

“Hi,” Potter says, and the trailing ends of his shoelaces click-swish against the floor every other step as he comes up to the counter.

“Hello,” Draco says. “How was your day?”

“Eh. Same as always,” Potter says, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Aside from the most useless waste-of-time meeting I’ve had in my career with the Ministry to date, and I once sat through a meeting about how to properly affix labels to file folders. But you see, _someone_ keeps confusing Form 327-B with Form H-148C.” Potter huffs indignantly, as if confusing those two forms is akin to confusing a dragon with a cow. “It’s Pritchard. We all know it’s Pritchard because that arsehole can barely spell his own name, but because they _don’t want to name names_ they force all of us to sit through a three hour meeting about how to fill in forms. _In the interest of fairness_ , of course.”

“Of course,” Draco echoes, amused.

“Sorry,” Potter says. “I’m boring you with my work stories.”

“Oh no,” Draco says. “Go on. It’s all quite fascinating. I love your work stories.” Saying the words _I love_ and almost-but-not-quite-a- _you_ to Potter elicits a little thrill in the pit of his stomach.

Potter snickers. “That was very convincing,” he says.

“Well,” Draco says, and here’s that little thrill again. “I am a very good boyfriend, after all.”

“Yeah, you are,” Potter says, so soft and fond that Draco does a double-take before he notices that Zelda’s appeared from the back room to water Francine. Potter must have heard her come out.

“Did you finish everything?” Draco asks, and Potter frowns, confused, for a moment until Zelda answers, “Everything for tomorrow is brewed, bottled, labelled, and ready to be sent out in the morning.”

Potter turns around. “Oh. Hi, Zelda. How’re you?”

“Doing well,” she says, then nods at Draco, who’s come out from behind the counter to stand beside Potter. “Glad to have this one back underfoot again.”

“I know what you mean,” Potter says. “The house gets lonely without him around.”

“It was two days,” Draco mutters, glancing back and forth between the two of them. He doesn’t think they’re making fun of him, but he isn’t entirely convinced that they’re not, either.

“Two days is entirely too long,” Potter tells him, slinging an arm around Draco’s shoulders and drawing him close. He looks down and gives Draco an honest-to-Merlin leer. “Very much looking forward to having him home again.”

Draco’s stomach flops in a way that’s, to his surprise, not altogether unpleasant. He can feel his cheeks going pink, and he does his best to school his expression into something that’s not annoyed or—even worse—eager. He’s not sure that he’s quite managed either.

Zelda looks startled for a moment, then whatever expression is on Draco’s face makes her bite back a laugh. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll just…” She gestures at the door, and then goes.

After she’s gone, Draco shrugs out from under Potter’s arm and turns on him. “You have got to stop telling people things like that.”

“I’ll stop talking about our sex life when it stops making people leave us alone,” Potter says with a shrug.

“What—We haven’t got—” Draco breaks off and huffs. “Oh good Merlin.”

“You’re cute when you blush, you know,” Potter says smugly, and bloody hell, Draco can feel his cheeks going warmer.

He flips Potter a rude sign, and Potter laughs at him, and the sound of it melts Draco’s irritation. He sighs, heavy and put-upon, and Potter only looks more smug. The arsehole.

“You’re awful,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Potter say, then glances around at the empty shop.

And Draco thinks of their cosy little home and the baked chicken he’s got planned for dinner and an evening spent in quiet companionship on the sofa, and how getting there will take a long motorcycle ride with his arms wrapped snug around Potter’s waist. And he wants to get to that now. He flicks his wand, and the door locks and the sign flips from _Open_ to Closed. Five minutes early, but who cares. He counts the till, and Potter casts cleaning charms, and together they get everything done quickly.

Draco looks around at his shop, everything clean and organised and ready to open up again tomorrow. Then he looks at Potter, and smiles.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

* * * * *

Potter finds the newest body and goes to take a look at it on Saturday while Draco is at work, for which Draco is tremendously grateful. He knows they have to go see them, knows that there might be a clue. And if not, well, doesn’t he owe it to these victims? They’ve all been Muggle so far, and it can’t be coincidence that Draco’s the lone wizard. He can’t help but feel as though he’s dragged them into this. He can’t shake the sick sense that he’s somehow responsible. The least he can do is see them.

But it’s hard. It’s so hard to look at them, stiff and cold and with that eerie slackness to their faces. Because he looks at them and knows that any one of them might have been him instead.

He’d said as much to Potter, and Potter got a funny sort of sad strained smile on his face and said, “I do, too. But Malfoy, that’s why I have to go.” 

And so he does, and he comes back with a file full of information, a picture paperclipped to the inside cover and then pages of facts, everything Potter could come up with, a name and an address and a birthday and a list of surviving family members, schools, occupations, past lovers and current friends. 

Draco doesn’t have much hope that this one will fall into a pattern any better than all the rest have. All the details so far have been frustratingly random. Men and women, young and middle-aged and elderly, different races, different social classes, different backgrounds and professions and lifestyles.

“Another veteran,” Potter says, handing Draco the file the file.

Draco pushes his potions journal to the edge of the table and opens up the file, leafing through it. “That’s the third one,” he says. “Your dinner’s in the oven.” Draco made a casserole with eggplant and tomatoes and orzo and fresh mozzarella, because it’s something that would keep well in case Potter was late. 

“Thanks,” Potter says, heading over and taking out the plate from where it’s been keeping warm. He casts a _Finite_ and brings it back to the dining table. “Could be a a pattern?”

“It is a bit odd that three out of the seven so far have been soldiers, but that doesn’t explain the rest,” Draco says without looking up.

“There was a policeman,” Potter says. “Maybe it’s people who serve their country? Or city?”

“But that doesn’t explain the school teacher, or the mechanic, or the waitress,” Draco says. He closes the folder and slides it across the table. As he’d expected, nothing matches up with the rest. Age, race, background, location—it’s all different than the rest. “Unless we’re talking about people who serve in any capacity. But then that doesn’t exactly narrow it down, does it, because everyone serves other people by some definition of the word.”

Potter sighs and shovels a forkful of eggplant and tomato into his mouth, chewing determinedly as his brow knits in a thoughtful frown. He swallows before he says, “There has to be something.”

“Unless there isn’t,” Draco says. “What if they’re all random. Deliberately random, picked specifically so that we couldn’t come up with a pattern to predict the next one?”

“Then what’s the point of any of this?” Potter counters. “There’s got to be a common thread. There’s always something that ties it all together.”

“Hm,” Potter says, and opens the file.

He finishes eating before he finishes reading, and Draco closes the journal he’s been staring at and stands up, takes Potter’s plate and fork into the kitchen and washes them with a spell. He puts them away and yawns widely.

“Tired?” Potter asks from behind him. Draco hadn’t noticed him leave the table.

“Mm, a bit,” he says, suppressing another yawn before he turns around.

“Oh. Nightmares?” Potter asks, frowning.

“Not really,” Draco says. He’d dreamt of flying last night, cool wind rushing over him, and the heavy flap-flap-flap of wings beating against the air. In the dream he’d been afraid to look anywhere but down. But it wasn’t a nightmare, exactly, and it hadn’t interrupted his sleep. “Just tired. Might make it an early night tonight, though.”

“You should,” Potter tells him. “Sleep in tomorrow, too.”

“We’ll see,” Draco says. But a warm shower and pyjamas and an evening spent lazing in bed with a book all sounds pretty wonderful. “But I think I will go on up to bed. Don’t fall asleep down here. I’m not going to come get you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Potter says with a laugh. “No promises. Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Goodnight, Potter.”

Draco makes good on his plans. He has a long shower and puts on a pair of light cotton pyjama bottoms he’d purchased at the same shop as Potter’s green hoodie and an undershirt. Then he props himself up in bed and browses through a book of recipes, marking pages of things he thinks Potter might like. Near eleven o’clock he sets the book on his nightstand atop the one of Chinese mythology that he hasn’t got around to hiding in the library. Then he slips from bed, uses the toilet, and washes his hands and face and brushes his teeth.

He hasn’t heard Potter come up yet, so he tiptoes downstairs and sighs. Potter’s stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, head lolling to one side. Draco goes into the living room and looks at him for a moment, at the dark sweep of his eyelashes against his cheekbones, his gently parted lips, the loose curl of his fingers where his hand rests on his stomach.

He touches a hand to Potter’s shoulder and hesitates for a moment, savouring how warm and solid Potter feels through the soft thin cotton of his tee-shirt. Then he shakes him gently.

“C’mon, Harry, up with you,” he murmurs. “You’ve fallen asleep on the sofa again, you great git.”

“Mmph,” Potter says, blinking up at Draco with sleepy green eyes. Draco takes a step back as Potter stretches, arching his back like a cat, his tee-shirt riding up a few inches, and Draco does not look at the small slice of abdomen the motion reveals. He doesn’t think about touching it, nor does he think about how warm and soft that skin might feel if he did. “Time’s it?” Potter mumbles, voice rough, words slurring a little with sleep.

“C’mon, Potter, up with you,” Draco says again, a little firmer this time, and waits as Potter shoves himself up, yawns hugely, and then staggers to his feet.

Draco gives him a head start, sending his empty mug sailing into the kitchen with a _Wingardium_ , then turning out the downstairs lights. Potter’s slow, shuffling gait has only taken him to the stairs, and Draco trails along behind him as Potter starts up them. He’s got a hole in the heel of his sock, and a curiously fond sort of exasperation curls through Draco’s chest.

“What am I going to do with you?” he says aloud.

“Chase me upstairs every other night, apparently,” Potter says.

“Apparently,” Draco agrees.

They reach the upper floor, and Potter heads for the bathroom. “G’night Malfoy,” he says as he shuts the door.

“Goodnight,” Draco says, and goes back into his bedroom.

He gets back into bed, turns out the lamp, and is asleep before he hears the bathroom door open again.

* * * * *

It’s difficult to find time to work on the motorcycle, because usually when it’s home, Potter is home as well, and Draco can’t very well make up excuses to spend long stretches of time in the shed, can he? But he talks Potter into letting him drive it to work a couple of weekends when Potter doesn’t have plans to leave the house, and one night he sneaks out into the back garden while Potter’s fast asleep and finishes it off.

Getting the Notice-Me-Not Charms to integrate properly with the rest of the magic in the motorcycle is a delightful challenge. Whoever had worked the spells on this had been fiendishly clever, but a bit haphazard about it. Draco found several places where the magic sprawled unnecessarily, and several more where it could use quite a bit of neatening up. Though he was sorely tempted to tweak it, Draco left it alone and layered his own spells on top, interweaving it at key points here and there. He’s not sure who enchanted the motorcycle in the first place, and a small part of him is afraid that if he starts mucking around with the magic that makes it fly, he might mess something up and have no way to fix it. So he’s very careful to keep his own spells from interacting with any of the others, and makes certain that where the magics do interact, they’re woven in such a way that Draco will be able to remove his without harming what was already there.

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time he finishes. He takes a deep breath and walks around the motorcycle, one hand held carefully over the gleaming black paint. It feels solid, but there’s no way to tell for sure without testing it.

Casting a glance up at Potter’s bedroom window, Draco activates the spells, and starts the engine, then lets go of the handlebars and takes a step back.

The motorcycle wavers in place, and when Draco finally lets his eyes slide off it, he can’t quite seem to force them back. And though the floor of the little shed is vibrating faintly, he can’t hear a thing.

“Ha!” he says to himself, grinning. He puts his hand out and forces himself to take a step forward, and as soon as his fingertips make contact with the handlebar of the bike, it pops back into view and the roar of the engine fills his ears. He turns it off, locks up the shed, and is still grinning as he sneaks back into the house and slips into bed.

It’s a struggle to keep his excitement hidden as he goes through his morning routine Monday morning with Potter, despite his exhaustion, and Draco can’t keep himself from hurrying from window to window, watching carefully as Potter wheels the motorcycle out of the shed, turns it on, and rides away. He doesn’t seem to notice anything different, to Draco’s relief. It’s even harder to contain himself on Tuesday morning, when he climbs up onto the motorcycle behind Potter.

On Thursday morning, Potter’s birthday, Draco places a neatly-wrapped gift at Potter’s place at the table. This was a bit of a last-minute thing, but once the idea came to him, he couldn’t resist. Not only is it something that Potter will find useful, but if he thinks that Draco’s already given him his gift, the motorcycle will come as even more of a surprise. And Draco really really wants it to be as much of a surprise as possible. The whole time he’d worked on it, he’d been envisioning the look on Potter’s face.

It’s both selfish and selfless at the same time, he thinks, and how odd to think that something can possibly be both at once. He went to a lot of trouble to make something for Potter, but so much of his motivation wasn’t just how happy it would make Potter, but how it would make Draco feel to have been the person to make Potter feel like that.

When Potter comes down to breakfast, he catches sight of the present right away. “Malfoy,” he sighs. “You already gave me a gift.”

“And now I’m giving you another,” Draco says, flipping the last pancake onto the stack of finished ones. “Go on and open it, I’m nearly done here.”

Potter sighs and acts incredibly reluctant, but Draco can see how he’s smiling as he tears off the paper and reveals—

“Socks?” Potter asks, staring down at the package. “You got me socks?”

“Yours have holes in them,” Draco says. He brings over the stack of pancakes, along with a bowl of sliced strawberries and a small jug of syrup. “And I’ll have you know that I braved a Muggle shop entirely on my own to go get you those, so a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

Potter snorts. “You’re so brave, Malfoy, how will I ever thank you enough?”

“Eat your pancakes, you tit,” Draco says, serving himself a few and then scooping strawberries on top.

“In a moment, you arse,” Potter replies. He bends over and peels off his socks, which both have holes in them. Then he tears into the package of new ones and pulls on a fresh pair. “Thanks, though. I really do appreciate it, even though it’s weird that you keep giving me clothes.”

“I wouldn’t have to, if you didn’t insist on wearing things until they fall apart on their own,” Draco says, and Potter rolls his eyes and piles a stack of pancakes onto his plate.

Potter shrugs and stuffs a bite of pancake into his mouth. “I hate to throw away things that are still good.”

“And I hate it when you talk with your mouth full,” Draco says, and Potter snorts.

They finish eating breakfast in silence, and then Draco shoos Potter out of the kitchen to do the washing up on his own. A robin perches on the windowsill and watches Draco as he works. Remembering the sparrow, Draco glances back to make certain that Potter hasn’t come back in, then leans close to the window. The robin watches him with shiny black eyes.

“Go to the fence,” Draco says.

The robin cocks its head, then flies to the fence.

“Oh,” Draco says, staring at it. “Well, this is interesting.”

The robin flies off, and Draco finishes up in the kitchen, then gathers his things and gets his shoes on, and Potter scoops his keys from the bowl by the door and they leave the house.

It’s not until they’re out by the shed, ready to leave for work, when Draco unveils his real gift. While Potter’s taking off his glasses to prepare for pulling his helmet over his head, Draco activates the charms he’s added to the motorcycle. Potter blinks for a moment, then puts his glasses back on. He turns his head a little to the side, focusing on the air to the left of the motorcycle before slowly sliding his gaze back onto it. As an Auror, he’s of course been trained to see through a Notice-Me-Not, and when he works out what Draco’s done, he breaks into a wide grin.

“Malfoy!” Potter exclaims, delighted. He turns to Draco and beams. “When did you even have time to do this?”

Draco shrugs. “You let me take it to work a few times. Emily and Zelda had the shop under control, so I had a bit of time to spare.”

“A bit of time, my arse,” Potter says. “I know how complicated the spellwork on the motorcycle is. This must have taken you days to get done.”

Draco shrugs. “Yes, well. I thought it’d be useful.”

“The socks were useful,” Potter says. “And the hoodie was useful. But this is so far beyond… Is this because I got you Quidditch tickets? I know I spent a little more on them than I should have, but you didn’t have to—”

“Don’t be daft,” Draco cuts him off. “I didn’t do it out of any sense of guilt or obligation, or because I’m trying to make things _even_ , or whatever other reason you’ve come up with in that ridiculous brain of yours. This way we can fly to work if we feel like it. That’s all.”

“Ah,” Potter says, nodding a little, and now he’s smiling again. “And my birthday’s got nothing to do with it, then?”

“Nothing at all,” Draco says, struggling to keep the grin off his face.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Potter says. “I love it.”

And then he steps close, and then closer, and wraps Draco up in a warm hug. Draco puts his arms around Potter without thinking, and leans into him for one brief and glorious moment. His body is torn between remaining tensed, and melting into Potter’s embrace. Which is good because, caught between two opposites, Draco ends up doing neither. He counts two heartbeats before letting go, and it takes every ounce of willpower he’s got to step back.

“Come on. Let’s take it for a test drive,” he says, turning away and grabbing his helmet.

Potter laughs and shakes his head. “Better not,” he says ruefully. “Morning commute’s probably not the best time for it. The motorcycle’s, er, not exactly registered with the Ministry. Misuse of Muggle Artefacts would take it away from me if they knew, and it’d get Arthur in trouble.” He brightens up a moment later. “But we’re meeting Ron and Hermione for drinks later. We could fly there.”

Draco grins. “I’ll hold you to that.”

* * * * *

It’s not just Weasley and Granger who meet them for drinks. It’s a whole Gryffindor reunion. Draco’s just as surprised as Potter is when they walk into the pub and everyone shouts, “Surprise!” and Potter is beaming and laughing and hugging them, and Draco trails awkwardly after him and tries to ignore the clutch of dread in the pit of his stomach, because he was not prepared for any of this. But he holds onto his smile and he shakes hands and greets everyone as though he’s actually glad to see them, and he downs his first pint in about two minutes flat, and everything’s a little easier after that.

He ends up sitting with Luna Lovegood, of all people, while Potter ends up in an extremely competitive game of darts with Thomas and Finnegan while several others look on and shout encouragement and insults. She hands him a glass of what turns out to be an excellent whisky, and instead of a conversation about Nargles or Wombats or whatever other barmy thing she tended to ramble on about in school, they end up having a wonderfully intense discussion about Chadwick Downer, the youngest wizard elected to the Wizengamot in more than a century, and whether he’ll do a better job of it than Wilhelmina Van Middlesworth, the other person who was strongly considered for the position.

Draco thinks they ought to have given Van Middlesworth the open seat, but Lovegood presents a surprisingly good case for Downer, and they debate the point until Potter comes back from getting his arse kicked at darts. He squeezes in between Draco and Lovegood and steals the rest of Draco’s drink.

“Hey,” Draco protests. “That was mine.”

Potter grins at him and hands back the empty glass. “Be nice to me, it’s my birthday.”

“Doesn’t mean you can act like an arse,” Draco tells him.

“Why not?” Potter asks with a cheeky grin. “You do it every day of the year. I’m sure you can let me have this one.”

Draco pinches him and Potter laughs and squirms against him, trying to bat Draco’s hand away, and then Weasley comes around with shots and Draco drinks his down, and everything gets a little hazy after that.

It’s still a little awkward, and Draco still doesn’t quite know how to talk to these people, but he gets through it and it’s not so bad. It’s nowhere near as bad as it could have gone, and Draco can’t help but wonder whether they’ve all grown up so much that they can put the weight of their shared history firmly behind them, or whether everyone’s just pretending they have for Potter’s sake.

But either way, Draco gets through it, and any awkwardness is more than worth it for the way the night ends. After they make their goodbyes, he and Potter head off, walking down the dark quiet pavement to where they parked the motorcycle. They’ve left off the helmets in favour of careful Protection Charms cast over their heads and bodies, and without the bulky plastic helmet in the way, Draco can get a lot closer. Potter’s driving, even though Draco offered to, so he’s taken a Sobriety Solution. But Draco is still pleasantly tipsy, several pints and a couple of shots over the course of the evening having put him at that perfect level of drunkenness, that wonderful point where everything is warm and a little bit blurred around the edges, where Draco feels loose and comfortable faintly dizzy and so, so in love.

And up here, it’s just him and Potter. It’s overcast tonight, the clouds stretching smooth and solid over the sky, and the twinkling lights of London spread out below like a whole ocean of stars. And it’s a bit like flying upside down, isn’t it, all the lights down below instead of up above where they ought to be. And that’s all right, that’s okay. Because in between it’s just him and Harry, and Draco closes his eyes and lets his cheek lean against the back of Potter’s shoulder.

And below him, around him, the world spins and spins.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco makes his eighth transformation and the only blood on him when he wakes up afterward is from the wounds on his back where his wings grew. For a moment, he’s so grateful that all he can do is breathe through it. If this is like the last time he woke up mostly-clean, Potter’s best efforts won’t turn up a body. And that means that no-one died this time, which in turn means that it’s bought him an extra month.

Of course, that extra month only makes a difference if he assumes he’ll be the last victim, but it’s another month where the odds of him surviving are a little bit better than they would’ve been otherwise. It’s not much, but Draco will take it. At this point, he’ll take anything.

He sits up and activates the Portkey, letting it sweep him away back home.

* * * * *

The International Finals are held the following Monday in Luxembourg, and when they try to leave, they discover that their Portkey wasn’t properly spelled. By the time they get it straightened out, they leave several hours after when they’d meant to arrive. They barely have time to set up the tent in their allotted space before they have to rush off to the stadium. By the time they settle into their seats, they’ve missed both the warm-ups and each team’s introduction. But they’re in time to see the officials release the Snitch, so they haven’t missed any of the actual gameplay. 

Potter’s rooting for Egypt, so Draco roots for Brazil just to be contrary. Really, he’s got no loyalty to either team, but opposing Potter is an old habit. And the fact that Draco doesn’t care one way or another which team wins makes it a lot more fun, ribbing each other over each goal and each foul without any rancor behind the insults. They cheer when the Chasers score, and shout insults at the officials for making bad calls. There are food vendors here from all over the world, and Draco and Potter take turns making runs to buy things, returning with little paper boats of falafel and poutine and kebabs and gyoza to share between them.

It’s a long and brutal game, and it’s nearly midnight by the time Egypt’s Seeker finally catches the Snitch. Draco’s not the least bit upset that his team lost, and how can he be when Potter turns to him with that brilliant smile of his?

“So,” Potter says, grinning. “Good gift?”

“The best,” Draco says honestly, and Potter’s grin widens.

And it was, it truly was. Today was the best day Draco’s had recently. A Quidditch game, and spending the entire afternoon in Potter’s company, and Draco can’t think of anything else he’d have liked more.

“Good,” Potter says, looking very pleased with himself.

They linger in the stands for a while longer, waiting for the aisles and staircases to clear of spectators. Potter kicks his feet up onto the empty seat in front of him, and they talk about the game, rehashing and analysing some of the more outstanding plays. Potter talks about the possibility of trying to adapt some of them for the next Weasley Quidditch game they play, if they can manage to get themselves on the same team.

When the stadium has emptied enough that the people leaving it aren’t cramming in against each other, he and Potter stand up and make their leisurely way down the long flights of stairs and over to the field of tents. They’re discussing the prospects for the next season, with Draco steadfastly ignoring the fact that he might not be around to see how it ends. Which is a shame because he and Potter agree that England might have a real shot at making it to the Finals next summer.

They reach their tent, which looks especially small and shabby next to the striped monstrosity set up beside it. Draco gestures for Potter to go first, and Potter undoes the wards around it, then lifts the flap and starts to go in before he freezes.

“Uh oh,” Potter says, then takes a step back.

He bumps into Draco, and Draco puts his hands on Potter’s back to steady him. “What?”

Potter turns to him, looking sheepish and apologetic.

“What,” Draco says flatly. Because he’s seen Potter make that face before and it never bodes well.

“Well,” Potter says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and drawing out the word. “You know how I borrowed the tent from Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Potter says, drawing out the word again. “I guess he figured since it’s just us two, we didn’t need that much space. So, erm. It’s.” He inhales. “It’s a bit _cosier_ than I think we might’ve expected it to be.”

Draco stares at him for a long moment. Then he reaches out an arm, shuffles Potter gently to the side, and lifts the tent flap to look inside himself.

For all that the outside of the tent is shabby and worn, the inside it quite cosy. There’s a thick rug spread over the floor, a little potbellied stove with a couple of upholstered chairs in front of it. A little bathroom is separate from the rest of the tent. There’s a small round table and two wooden chairs in the near corner, and in the far corner—

“Oh,” says Draco. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” Potter agrees, squeezing by Draco.

They stare at the one bed.

“Sorry,” Potter says after a minute. “I didn’t even think that he’d give us a tent with only one bed.” He looks around and sighs, then offers lamely, “We could try to Transfigure something?”

“Oh?” Draco asks, folding his arms over his chest. “And which of us will be sleeping outside, then?” Transfiguration spells are notoriously unstable when used inside Extension Charms. If one of them Transfigures a bed, there’s a good chance they’ll find themselves suddenly on the floor a couple of hours later.

Potter rolls his eyes. “Neither of us,” he says decisively, and oh Merlin, Draco knows that look on his face as well. “You know what? We’re both adults. We can share a bed for a night without it being a,” He gestures vaguely, “a _thing_.”

Draco stares at him. Potter stares back. Draco swallows.

“You’re right,” he says, because what else can he say? “Sharing won’t be a problem.” He and Potter are friends, aren’t they? It’s obvious that Draco likes Potter. So if he makes a fuss about sharing or flat-out refuses to do it, Potter won’t jump to the conclusion that Draco doesn’t like him. The only explanation for it will be that Draco likes Potter too much. And that cannot happen. He clears his throat. “Well, I’ll just go get changed, then.”

“Sure,” Potter says. “I’ll just, erm. Wait out here.”

Draco goes to retrieve his bag from where he’d tossed it just inside the tent flap, and retreats into the tiny bathroom. He wishes he’d brought his nicer pyjamas, because if he’s going to share a bed with Potter, he’d feel better with heavy flannel between them. Instead he brought an undershirt and his light cotton pyjama bottoms to sleep in, and hadn’t foreseen any problem with it because Potter had said he was borrowing the tent from the Weasleys, and they’re a large family. Surely any tent they owned would have multiple beds.

So much for that.

Sighing a little to himself, Draco goes through his evening routine and changes into his pyjamas, then folds up his clothes and puts them away in his bag.

Before he goes back out into the tent, he pauses to examine his appearance in the full-length mirror hung on the back of the door. He looks a little pale, but that’s nothing abnormal, nor are the faint circles beneath his eyes. His hair’s a little mussed, but that’s fine too. His Dark Mark is on blatant display, standing out starkly from the pale skin of his arm, and Draco wishes again for the long sleeves of his flannel pyjamas. The Mark looks even more ominous when it’s contrasted against the rest of his clothing, his white undershirt, and his pyjama bottoms are white with thin blue stripes and—

Draco blinks, and stares. Oh. He bought the pyjama bottoms in the first place because the fabric felt so soft and drapey, and he loves them because they’re every bit as comfortable as he thought they’d be. But hey, look at that, he can see every detail of his cock outlined very clearly through the thin fabric, right down to which way it’s pointing and that he’s not circumcised.

Absolutely fucking wonderful.

He thinks about all the times he’s dragged himself out of bed and stood over Potter and prodded him off the sofa, and how all of those times when Potter blinked his eyes open, Draco’s cock was _right fucking there_. He wants to sink through the floor. He can only hope that Potter was too sleep-muddled to really notice.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Draco tugs futilely at the hem of his shirt, then settles for holding his bag awkwardly in front of himself as he exits the bathroom.

“It’s all yours,” he says to Potter, who’s sprawled on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Thanks,” Potter says, rolling to his feet. He grabs his own bag and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself.

Draco wastes no time getting into bed. He drops his bag by the bedside and slips beneath the covers and feels instantly better, covered up by sheets and blankets. And the bed is plenty big enough for the two of them. This will be fine. It’s all fine.

Then it occurs to him that he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of bed without exposing himself to Potter. Maybe he’ll wake up early and he can slip into the bathroom and change before Potter wakes up. Or maybe Potter will wake up first and Draco can change out here? Oh, no, that wouldn’t work. He’ll have to take a shower and Potter will think it’s odd that he’s put on his clothes before then. Unless he says that he wants to save time, making sure they’ll be able to get all packed up before their Portkey is scheduled to activate. He’ll shower at home when they get back. He’d prefer the comfort of his own bathroom, in any case, so he can make that argument if need be.

A group of people pass by the tent, chattering animatedly in… Spanish? Is that Spanish? It’s muffled and hard to tell for sure, and then they’re gone, their voices fading into the distance. 

Potter comes out of the bathroom and drops his bag near the door, and Draco glances over at him as he approaches the bed, his gaze dipping down to see whether Potter’s cock is visible through his pyjamas. It’s not, and as soon as Draco realises where he’s looking, he jerks his eyes away, mortified, then risks a glance at Potter’s face. But Potter’s not looking at him, thank Merlin, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed what Draco’s just done.

“Oh,” he says, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I didn’t even think to ask which side of the bed you wanted.”

“You’re fine,” Potter assures him quickly. He still isn’t looking at Draco. “That’s fine. I don’t mind the right side.”

“All right,” Draco says, settling back down. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Potter says, and then smiles and flips back the covers before he gets in.

The mattress shakes as he settles down, pulling the covers over himself and turning over, and suddenly the bed feels a whole lot smaller now that they’re both in it. Draco turns over so his back is to Potter, and there’s a quiet clatter as Potter puts his glasses on his bedside table, and then Potter turns out the lights.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Potter says.

“Goodnight, Potter,” Draco replies.

And then they lie there in the dark.

Draco’s sure that Potter’s still awake. He knows what Potter sounds like when he sleeps, how his breath goes deep and even, soft heavy puffs that Draco’s able to hear even from the hallway in their home. But now Potter’s almost silent. Is he as nervous about this as Draco is, Draco wonders? Or does Potter simply take a while before he falls asleep? Draco would have thought he’d nod off fast, given the number of times he’s passed out on their sofa at home, but perhaps it takes a while longer when Potter’s sleeping in an unfamiliar location. He hopes that’s it, and that Potter’s not having trouble sleeping because Draco’s here. He’d like to think that they’ve become good friends. He likes that Potter seems so comfortable around him.

Someone laughs right outside their tent, startling Draco, and then someone else says something loudly in French, and the first person laughs again.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Potter asks quietly, “Did you get that, Malfoy?”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Draco says, and Potter snickers, and Draco stretches one foot across the no man’s land between them and kicks his heel lightly against Potter’s leg, which only makes Potter snicker again.

Draco settles down again with a smile on his face, and then Potter’s breathing slows and deepens and evens out. The steady rhythm of it lulls Draco, and he drifts off between one breath and the next.

* * * * *

Draco wakes up in the morning to find that he’s turned over at some point in his sleep, and so has Potter. They’re curled inward together like a pair of parentheses, their knees brushing beneath the sheets. Potter has his head tucked down so his chin nearly touches his chest, his nose hidden beneath the blanket, his black hair wild against the white pillowcase. One of his hands is tucked under his pillow, and the other reaches across the empty stretch of mattress between them, his fingertips a hairsbreadth from brushing against the side of Draco’s wrist.

Slowly, carefully, Draco shifts his arm until they’re touching there, too. Potter’s fingers to his wrist, his knees to Potter’s. Their bodies make a circle, complete. Draco closes his eyes again and lets himself have this, just for now, just for a few more minutes.

He doesn’t think he’ll drift off, but he must at some point because when he opens his eyes again, Potter’s side of the bed is empty.

* * * * *

Draco yawns as he decants the Scintillating Solution into a crystal jar, screws on the lid, and carefully labels it before setting it on the shelf he uses for finished mail orders. He’s got about a dozen more mail orders to see to before he makes his ninth transformation just three days from now, but it’s nearly midnight and he can barely keep his eyes open. He takes the cauldron over to the sink and rinses it before lathering up a stiff brush with the Cauldron Soap and beginning to scour the dregs of the potion.

He hates to leave such a large backlog of orders for Zelda to handle on her own while he’s gone, but he’s tired enough that he’s worried about making mistakes. Besides, he’s got another couple of days to try to get through some more of them before the full moon.

After rinsing out the cauldron, Draco rinses the brush and then lathers up a rag. Scintillating Solution tends to leave a stubborn film that requires quite a bit of elbow grease to get clean. Draco’s always had to wash out his cauldron at least twice before it’s gone. He scrubs the inside of the cauldron in brisk circular motions, starting in the very bottom and slowly working his way up, round and round. Twice he has to lather up his rag again, but when he rinses the cauldron a second time and inspects the inside with a critical eye, he doesn’t see any of the tell-tale shimmer of potion residue.

He sets it aside to dry, then rinses the rag and hangs it up. By the time he finishes with everything, his fingers are as wrinkled as raisins and he can’t stop yawning. He’s looking forward to crawling into his bed and passing out for the night. He thinks he’s tired enough at this point that he might not even dream.

When Draco steps out of the Floo and into his living room a minute later, he finds Potter on the sofa. He’d obviously stayed up to do work, with case files spread out over the coffee table, and a half-drunk mug of tea on the end table beside him. Potter grumbles softly to himself as the flare of green flame dies down behind Draco, then he rolls over a little and snuggles down against the sofa cushions without fully waking up.

And despite his exhaustion, Draco smiles. He toes off his shoes, then picks them up and carries them to the entryway, putting them in their place beneath the little table. He puts Potter’s under there beside his, then returns to the living room. He collects Potter’s empty mug and puts it in the kitchen, then folds the afghan and drapes it over the arm of the sofa. He gathers up Potter’s files and taps them into a neat pile, and turns off the telly, and then kneels down on the floor beside the sofa.

“Harry,” he says softly. “Wake up.” He puts his hand on Potter’s shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. “Come on, let’s get you into your bed where you belong.”

“Mm,” Potter mumbles, turning his head. His nose nudges against Draco’s wrist, and Draco freezes. “You smell good.”

Draco stares down at him. “What?”

“Lemons,” Potter says, inhaling, then exhaling again, and his breath tickles against the tender inside of Draco’s wrist. “You always smell like lemons.”

It takes Draco a moment to work out what Potter’s talking about. “Hm,” he says, brushing a lock of Harry’s hair from his forehead and tucking it behind his ear. “I suppose I do.”

“S’nice,” Potter mumbles, and something warm curls through Draco’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Draco says. “It is.” He brushes his fingers through Potter’s hair again. “Now come on, up you get.”

Potter stumbles obediently to his feet, and Draco gives him a little push toward the stairs, then turns off the lamp and follows him up.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Potter says.

“Goodnight,” Draco tells him.

And it’s not until afterward, when he’s in his room and in his pyjamas and in his bed, that he realises that Potter had called him by his given name. Draco replays it in his mind, how his name sounded in Potter’s sleep-rough voice.

It’s startling how much he likes it, and a wave of longing nearly overwhelms him by how much he wants to hear it again. His mind drifts back to the night of the International Finals, of falling asleep to the sound of Potter’s steady breathing and what it was like to wake up beside him in the morning. And now that he’s had that, now that he knows what that’s like, he feels the lack of it like someone’s cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on his chest. There’s a yawning void in him, enormous and empty and aching, until it feels like Draco might implode around it at any moment.

He catches himself daydreaming about _what-if_ s. As they pass each other in the hall, Potter on his way into the bathroom and Draco heading downstairs. As they sit across from each other and share breakfast. At night, with both of them settled down on the sofa, the room glowing with warm lamplight, Draco reading and Potter reviewing case files, the telly playing low in the background. Sometimes, because he is weak-willed, Draco lets himself pretend that it’s real. That he and Potter live here together because they’re in love. That they share a home and a life because they choose to, not because circumstances have forced them together. Sometimes—and he only does this very, very rarely because Draco is afraid of letting it slip—he pretends that Potter is _Harry_.

If he could have that, he thinks, if he could have that even just for a little while, he wouldn’t mind dying nearly so much.

Most everything else is wrapped up as neatly as he can manage. The shop is doing well and will continue on without him in Zelda’s capable hands. He knows the risks his parents took to keep him alive during the War, and he knows how this will hurt him, but they will survive it. But Potter…

The idea of leaving Potter feels like leaving something very important left undone. Like not checking off the last item on a list, like not tying up the final loose end. He doesn’t want to go, of course he doesn’t. But the sheer depth of this unexplored _thing_ with Potter is the one thing that makes Draco truly want to _stay_.

Sometimes, when Draco is at his very lowest. When his will is weakest and the temptation grows almost too strong to resist. Sometimes Draco wants to tell Potter. But he’s afraid that if he does, Potter will go along with it even if he doesn’t return Draco’s feelings. He might do it out of pity, or out of obligation, or, worst of all, out of nothing but the kindness of his bottomless heart. Because Draco’s days are very numbered, and they’re already faking a relationship for the rest of the world, how bad could it be to carry that just a little further?

But Draco doesn’t just want Potter; he wants it to be real.

* * * * *

Draco makes his ninth transformation without incident and comes home safely afterward. He’s covered in blood again this time, which means of the ten victims, there are only three left now. He submits to Potter’s care so as to save them both an argument, and because Potter’s warm, dry hands on Draco’s back do more to ground him than anything else. After his wounds are bandaged, Potter leaves and Draco gets in the shower and scrubs himself clean and dresses for work.

Potter is already downstairs, waiting for Draco in the kitchen with tea and a plate of slightly-undertoasted toast.

“You’re too good to me,” Draco says, settling into his chair.

Potter snorts. “It’s just toast, Malfoy.”

“It’s toast I didn’t have to make for myself. That makes all the difference,” Draco corrects, and that gets a laugh out of Potter.

“Yeah, well, that’s certainly true,” he says. He seats himself across from Draco, and his foot bumps against Draco’s beneath the table.

Potter doesn’t seem to notice, and Draco doesn’t move away. And when Draco finishes his toast, he lingers over his tea for as long as possible, to preserve that one small point of contact for as long as he’s able.

* * * * *

Potter had sent Draco a message around lunchtime that he was being sent on a stakeout and had no idea when he’d be home. So Draco takes the Floo from his shop to the Ministry, then takes Potter’s motorcycle and drives it home. He heats up leftovers for dinner and eats by himself, then settles down on the sofa with a book.

The seasons are starting to change and there’s a bit of a chill in the air. Away from the warmth of the kitchen, it’s much chillier, and Draco doesn’t understand why until he sees that Potter’s left a window cracked open a few inches, and cold air is flooding into the house. Potter’s also left one of his hoodies tossed over the arm of the sofa, a blue one, and after closing the window, Draco pulls it on. He feels a little embarrassed by it, as if he’s taking liberties he shouldn’t be taking. But the last time Potter had to go on a stakeout he didn’t come home until nearly dawn. Here it’s barely eight, so Draco will be upstairs asleep long before Potter comes home, and he’ll never have to know about it. He’ll make sure to put the hoodie in the laundry before he goes up to bed, and it’ll be like it never happened.

Draco sits down on the sofa again and tucks his feet up beneath him, curling up against the cushions, and it’s warm and comfortable. The hoodie really is as cosy as it looks, and Draco can see why Potter practically lives in them when the weather allows for it. The fleecy lining is soft, and best of all, it smells like Potter. And Draco does feel vaguely guilty for it, because it’s weird, isn’t it, that he keeps tucking his nose to his shoulder and inhaling. 

He takes up his book again, one he’s reading for pleasure rather than for work or research, and does his best to lose himself in it.

It works somewhat better than he’d intended, and he’s so absorbed in the story he’s reading that he startles when the Floo flares without warning. Draco glances at the clock, but no, he hadn’t lost track of time. Potter’s come home early, and there’s no way Draco can hide what he’s wearing.

“You would not believe—” Potter begins, stamping soot from his shoes, then stops short. “Is that my hoodie?”

Draco sits up straighter. “You left a window open and I was cold,” he says defensively. “I was only borrowing it since it was already down here.”

“It’s fine,” Potter says. “I’m just surprised. That’s all. I don’t, er. Mind.”

Draco looks at him. “You don’t?”

“You should keep it,” Potter blurts out, then blinks as if he didn’t expect himself to say that. “Er. I mean. It. The colour suits you. And if you like it.” He blinks again. “You should keep it, if you like it.”

“No, I,” Draco says. “I like it. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Potter says. “Then, that’s good. You’re welcome. I’m just going to.” He points at the doorway to the kitchen, and then goes there.

Draco leans forward, and catches a glimpse of Potter covering his face with his hands for a moment before he’s out of sight.

He sits back, stunned. Because if he didn’t know better… Well. It seems rather like… 

For a moment, Draco can’t even bring himself to think it. Because it’s impossible, isn’t it? It can’t be possible that Potter returns Draco’s affections. He _can’t_. He just can’t.

 _And why not?_ whispers a traitorous little corner of his mind.

And Draco hasn’t got a good answer for that other than the fact that he’s _Harry bloody Potter_ and he doesn’t belong with Draco. He doesn’t belong with someone who fought on the wrong side of the War, or someone who, however much he may regret it now, spent six years acting as rotten as possible and devoted himself wholeheartedly to making Potter’s life as miserable as he could manage. Potter deserves someone who cherished him from the very beginning. Who loves every one of his quirks and idiosyncrasies. Someone who doesn’t treat him like the Boy Who Lived, and knows better than to try to hold him up to the standards the rest of the world tries to measure him against.

_But that’s you, isn’t it?_

And perhaps it is. Perhaps, if things were different, it could be. Draco knows Potter, knows him better than he knows anyone else in his life. And though he may not have started out recognising Potter’s value, he knows it now, and in fact might even value Potter even more because it took him so long to figure it out, and he knows what it was like to take Potter for granted and he’ll never make that mistake again.

The problem isn’t Draco. He loves Potter, and he suspects Potter harbours tender feelings toward Draco in return. It’s not their friends and family, who have all accepted the other into their lives, and it’s not even the rest of the world or the media, who, despite Draco’s initial misgivings, have been more-or-less supportive of the Chosen One’s decision to carry on a romantic relationship with an ex-Death Eater.

The problem is the curse. The problem is that Draco can’t start anything with Potter when he knows he’s not going to be be able to see it through.

The little corner of his mind hasn’t got anything to say to that.

* * * * *

Once the idea had planted itself in Draco’s mind, it took root, burrowed deep and blossomed wide open, unfurling until it’s all Draco can think about.

He’s been so busy over the past few months trying to hide his own feelings that he’d never once stopped to think about Potter’s. But now that he’s paying attention, it’s as obvious as that framed photograph they’ve put in the entryway. Potter hadn’t suddenly gone so strained and awkward because he’d seen how painfully and blatantly obvious Draco’s feelings for him were. He’d gone strained and awkward because his own feelings were just as plain.

Draco had just never taken the time to look.

But now that he is looking, it’s so obvious. He sees the way Potter glances at him when he thinks Draco’s not watching. The way Potter’s smiles turn just a little softer when they’re aimed in Draco’s direction. How he presses back into it when Draco touches him, and how his hands seem to linger when he touches Draco. He stretches his feet under the dining table until they’re in Draco’s space, and he angles his body slightly towards Draco when they’re sitting on the sofa, and at the Weasley’s Potter will put his arm around Draco or hold his hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

And Draco is equal parts terrified and elated by the realisation that his feelings for Potter aren’t nearly so unrequited as he’d assumed. In a way, it was so much easier when he’d assumed they were. Because when he’d known that Potter couldn’t possibly love him back, he hadn’t hoped for anything more. His thoughts were idle fantasies, not actual possibilities. He’d been content to let his own feelings simmer, but now with the idea that they might be reciprocated, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore.

More and more often he catches himself almost acting on them. Waiting in line to pay for their groceries, he nearly slips his hand into Potter’s. He catches himself barely in time, pretends that there’s a speck of lint on the cuff of Potter’s hoodie he’s picking off, and Potter gives him a smile and says, “Thanks,” and Draco falls just a little more in love with the way he smiles.

It’s terrible. And it keeps happening, and each time is more painful than the last.

So when the full moon in October draws near and he starts to worry whether he’ll live past it, there’s a tiny part of Draco that thinks maybe it’s okay if he doesn’t.

* * * * *

He didn’t expect to wake up. He didn’t expect to be alive. This was his tenth transformation, and even though there had been two other transformations where he’d woken up without someone else’s blood on him, a part of Draco had still been afraid that someone had still died those nights. That he was the last one left and he was going to die. That this transformation was it for him.

But he isn’t dead.

He’s in another forest, and the sun’s not up yet, and it’s even more disorienting than it usually is. The only other time he’s awoken before mid-morning was when he’d been shot through the lung. But—he sits up and quickly takes stock of himself—he’s uninjured this time. Covered in blood, but none of it seems to be his own.

Sitting up too fast was a mistake, and Draco’s stomach roils alarmingly. He leans to the side just in time to avoid throwing up into his own lap. He coughs, spits, coughs, and spits again when he finishes, then sits back and looks around.

It’s hard to make out much of anything in the murky grey light of predawn, and Draco shivers. He’s reaching for his Portkey when a small rustle catches his attention. He looks behind him and sees that a bird has just landed. It cocks its head, looking back at him with one beady black eye, then flutters around to land before him, landing with another small rustle as it disturbs the dried leaves carpeting the ground.

It’s a woodpecker.

Draco stares down at it, and it stares back up at him. Then it hops close, closer, then pecks hard at his shin.

“Ow!” he yelps, jerking back, and the woodpecker takes off, flying up to the safety of a tree branch up above. 

Draco leans down to inspect his leg, and finds a small bead of blood welling up. Looking closer, he sees another two. He stares up at the woodpecker.

“Did you do that?” he asks.

But it’s a bird, so of course it doesn’t answer. Draco shivers again, and he reaches for his Portkey and activates it. The hooking sensation behind his navel nearly makes him throw up again, and he lands heavily on the bathroom floor. Kneeling, he stretches up far enough to flip the lights on, and then he sinks back down because beneath the harsh Muggle lights, the blood dried on his skin is garish. He sinks back, and gropes blindly behind him for the towel folded neatly over the metal bar beside the tub. He drags it off and drapes it over his lap, and tries to breathe.

Someone else died tonight, and that means there are only two curse victims left.

This is what his life has become. In less than a month, it’ll come down to a coin flip whether he lives or dies. It feels so bloody _pointless_.

“Malfoy?”

Potter appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed. He looks both relieved and worried as he kneels down beside Draco, and it’s too much. It’s all too much.

Draco’s eyes prickle hotly and he draws his knees up and presses his face to them, wraps his arms around his shins and tries to breathe steadily through his mouth. The threat of tears subsides, swept away by the rising panic. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to die.

“Christ, Malfoy,” Potter says, falling to his knees beside Draco. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Draco says into his knees. “Nothing’s happened.” He doesn’t know how to answer the other question, because everything’s wrong.

“Malfoy,” Potter says again, helpless.

He sounds very small, overwhelmed and bewildered, and if even Harry Potter doesn’t know what to do, then what chance has he got? They still have no idea how to break the curse on Draco, and they still don’t know who’s behind it, and they still haven’t been able to work out enough of a pattern to predict where Draco might go the next time he transforms. Given what they’ve got and how long it’s taken them to get it, there’s no way they’ll be able to break the curse before the next full moon. Oh Merlin, he’s going transform again. He’s going to die.

He turns his face to the side, cheek still pressed to his knees, and he whispers, “I’m scared.”

The admission hangs in the air between them, and Draco wishes he could take it back, that he could bite into it and swallow it down and keep it inside him. Because the way Potter’s face crumples at Draco’s confession is something he wishes he’d never seen.

Potter puts his arm carefully around Draco, heedless of the dirt and the blood and the dead leaves, and Draco can’t stop from leaning into his touch. Potter is still slightly too-warm from sleep, and his arm is reassuringly solid around Draco’s waist.

“It’s okay,” he says. His other hand finds Draco’s and pries it away from his shin. He twists their fingers together, his thumb rubbing slow circles against Draco’s skin, and he says again, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Draco tells him. His voice cracks alarmingly, and he swallows before he says, “It’s really, really not.”

“I know,” Potter says, softly, soothingly. “I know it’s not. But it will be, okay? We’ll figure this out. Just a little longer. We’re going to figure this out.”

 _I don’t believe you,_ Draco thinks.

But he can’t bring himself to say it aloud.

* * * * *

One week passes, and then another. Potter throws himself into his investigation with renewed dedication. He’s doing everything in his power to keep his promise that they’ll figure it out in time. He brings home more and more work, large stacks of files that he spends long hours poring over each evening. Draco has to chase him up to his bed nearly every night.

Draco, on the other hand, puts only a token amount of effort into his ongoing research about curse breaking. But he’s been afraid of this for so long and now that it’s here, well. Mostly he’s tired, and there’s a part of him that’s looking forward to it being over, one way or another. So instead of spending most of his time trying to prevent the inevitable, he tries his best to enjoy what time he’s got left. He goes to work and talks more than he usually does to Zelda, and then he comes home and spends time tending to his herb garden. He talks to Mrs Field over the fence and exclaims over how big Charlie is getting as he takes his first wobbling steps across the grass. Draco does the shopping and looks up new recipes and tries to memorise every last detail about the stretches of time he spends with Potter, and he tries to tell himself that this is enough.

He keeps expecting Potter to confront him about how little work Draco’s doing to research his curse, but it never comes. He keeps catching Potter casting sidelong glances at him. He looks almost as if he wants to say something to Draco, but he closes his mouth and looks away, turns his attention back to his files or whichever book he’s buried his nose in that evening.

“Clear the table, please? Dinner’s nearly done,” Draco tells Potter, and then gets everything plated while Potter shuffles his files into a messy stack and runs up to his room to put them away.

He returns a minute later with an enormous book of curses tucked under his arm. He drops it onto the coffee table for after dinner, then returns to the kitchen and gets down the wine glasses.

“The merlot, if you don’t mind,” Draco says before Potter can ask. That will go nicely with the veal chops and mushrooms he’d made for dinner.

“Fine by me,” Potter says and opens up the bottle. It’s got a picture of a dancing pig in an elaborate Marie Antoinette-style wig on the label, and for some reason it makes Potter laugh quietly to himself whenever he looks at it. This is the third time Draco’s bought that particular brand of merlot, simply because it makes Potter laugh.

He pours them each a generous glass and brings the bottle to the table as Draco sets their plates down.

“This is a new recipe,” Potter comments, picking up his knife and fork.

Draco snorts as he picks up his wine glass and takes a large sip. “You did watch me make it, didn’t you?”

“Sort of?” Potter says, cutting into his veal. “I wasn’t paying attention.” He pops the bite of meat into his mouth, and then makes a small sound of pleasure, and swallows before he says, “Shit, Malfoy. This is amazing.”

“Thank you,” he says, and doesn’t bother trying to hide how pleased he is by the compliment. Their eyes meet over the table, and then Potter looks away. Draco takes another sip of wine and eats a mushroom, then cuts into his own veal. It’s quite good, but he thinks he can do better next time. If he makes it past this full moon, he’ll try it again.

They eat in silence, and then Potter puts on the wireless and hums a little to himself as they do the washing up. When Draco’s down to scouring the last pan, Potter puts on the kettle. Draco rinses the pan and takes up Potter’s abandoned tea towel, wipes it dry, and goes to put it away in the cupboard.

He closes the cupboard door, and before he can move out of the way, Potter comes up behind him and reaches around him to get down their mugs to make tea, and Draco turns, and Potter is right there. Potter goes still, his fingertips still hooked around the handle of the cupboard, and his eyes dart down to Draco’s mouth. And it’s the same feeling as being in a dream, where Draco’s body moves of its own accord and the rest of him is helpless to do anything but observe.

Draco’s heart hammers hard in his chest as he leans forward, slowly, and Potter doesn’t move. His hand falls away from the cupboard door and settles lightly on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco touches his fingers to Potter’s waist, and leans in.

And at the last second, Potter turns his head and Draco’s lips brush the corner of his mouth. His hand on Draco’s shoulder turns solid and he pushes Draco away, and his fingers curling to hold Draco firmly away from him, and Draco’s hand slips away from Potter’s side.

“What…”

“Draco, no,” Potter says. He’s looking away. He won’t even look at Draco, and oh, Draco’s fucked up. He misread the whole situation, and of course he had. Of course he’s wrong and Potter doesn’t want him, not like that.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. “I’m sorry, I thought you—”

“I do,” Potter says quickly. “But, I. Look. I know that you’re afraid. I know that you’re thinking this might be it, but Malfoy, I can’t be a box you tick off.”

“You think…” Draco stares for a long moment as he parses through what Potter’s implying. “You think I’m only doing this because I don’t want to die a virgin?”

Potter stares at him. “Aren’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” Draco snaps, and his embarrassment and disappointment combust into a sudden anger. “And fuck you for thinking that I would, you arsehole. I don’t want—Fuck. You arse, I’m in love with you.”

Even in his wildest fantasies, his most far-fetched daydreams, this is not the way he’d imagined telling Potter. And, as Potter rocks back on his heels as though Draco had just struck him, this is not the way he’d imagined Potter reacting.

“Fuck you,” Draco says again, quieter this time, because this isn’t at all how it’s supposed to happen.

Potter sighs and closes his eyes, and then when he opens his eyes again and looks at Draco, there’s something sad in there. Something hurt and resigned.

“I love you, too,” he says, low and resigned.

Draco falters, because that’s not what he expected Potter to say. “What? Wait, really?”

“I do,” Potter says. “I have for a while. I’m sorry.”

“You’re—What? Why on earth are you apologising?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Potter says. He shoves a hand through his hair. “We can’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?” Draco stares at him incredulously. “Of course it matters. It makes all the difference. Because if you, if we. If we both feel the same, there’s no reason we shouldn’t. Right? There’s no reason we can’t—”

“Malfoy,” Potter says, and he’s practically pleading. “ _Draco_. We can’t. It’s not the right time.”

“And when will be the right time?” Draco demands. Now that he’s recovered his footing a bit more, he’s getting angry again. “If you want this and I want this, why on earth shouldn’t we do something about it?” 

“Malfoy—” Potter tries to cut in.

“I’m going to die,” Draco says bluntly before he can go off on that _it’s not the right time_ nonsense again, because if they wait for the right time, it’ll never happen.

“You’re not,” Potter insists, and there he is, there’s that stubborn arsehole Draco fell in love with. It might be endearing if it didn’t make Draco want to slap him. Potter says again, “You’re not.”

“ _Harry_. I know you don’t want to believe it, but I am. I’m one of two left now. And if I’m not killed two weeks from now, then I’ll be the only one left. Just me. And then I’ve only got a few months until the blood moon. And even less time, if we’re wrong about that.” Draco tries to keep his voice calm and reasonable.

And Potter turns on his heel and stalks off.

“Where are you going?” Draco calls after him, and Potter doesn’t answer.

Draco follows him out of the kitchen and finds him shoving his feet into his trainers.

“Where are you going?” Draco asks again.

Potter scoops his keys from the bowl by the door. “Out,” he says. “You’re…” He exhales harshly. “I can’t think with you here.” He turns for the door.

“Potter—”

“Ten minutes, okay?” Potter says. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t take his hand off the doorknob. “I just need some air. Give me ten minutes and we’ll talk about this. Okay?”

“Okay,” Draco echoes. Because what else can he say? “Ten minutes.”

Potter nods without looking back. He opens the door and steps outside, and shuts it again behind him. He doesn’t bother to lock it—and why would he, he’s only going to be gone a few minutes—but the sound of it latching sounds tremendously final.

In the kitchen, the kettle begins to whistle. Draco turns and goes back and takes it off the hob. He gets down the two mugs and puts a teabag into each one. He pours hot water, waits for the tea to steep, then tosses the teabags into the bin. He adds a generous splash of milk to Potter’s, and debates taking them into the living room, but decides against it. The dining table, then. He anticipates a very tense conversation, and Draco thinks they’ll fare better if they’ve got a solid piece of furniture between them. He puts the yellow mug at Potter’s seat, then sits down with his green mug.

It’s been five minutes. Draco cups his hands around his mug and watches steam rise. Two minutes later, he takes a sip. He peeks out the window but can’t make out anything beyond the pale reflection of his face. The wireless is still playing, and Draco shuts it off with a wave of his wand. He takes another sip of tea.

He spends all of the last minute watching the second hand on the clock tick round. Then he watches it tick round again. The house remains still and quiet. The door remains closed.

Draco sips more tea and peeks out the window again. He stands up and paces, then sighs and goes to put his shoes on. Potter most likely lost track of time. Draco’s seen how he gets when he’s mulling something over. He gets stuck in his own head and that’s clearly what’s happened here. And yes, he might be annoyed at Draco interrupting his thoughts and coming out to check on him, but he said he’d be ten minutes and now it’s been fourteen, and if he’d wanted to be out there for longer than he should have just bloody well said so.

Irritation is better than anxiety, so Draco feeds it as he yanks open the door and steps outside, and shuts it after himself more firmly than is strictly necessary. Potter knows how Draco hates it when he does things like this. Where he says he’ll be back in ten minutes and then fifteen minutes later, hasn’t come back yet.

Still fuming, Draco looks up and down the street. A car goes by in the distance, a dog barks from two houses down, but otherwise everything is quiet. Draco looks up and down the street again, but there’s no sign of Potter.

Well. He’d assumed that Potter would have kept closer to the house, but perhaps he’d fancied a bit of a walk. If Draco had to make a guess where he’d gone, he’d bet on the little park at the end of the street. There are several footpaths between the flower beds, and a pond with ducks, and an old wooden gazebo near a thin copse of silver birches where Draco knows that Potter goes sometimes on the weekends when he needs to get out of the house for a bit.

He’s only taken a few steps in that direction when he hears an owl hoot from behind him, and Draco turns around. He doesn’t see the bird, but something on the pavement catches his eye. He walks toward it, cautiously at first, and then faster when he realises what it is.

Potter’s keys lie abandoned on the concrete, gleaming dully in the light of the streetlamp. Draco’s hand shakes as he bends down to pick them up. Maybe he’s wrong, he might be mistaken—

He sorts through the keys until he finds the a heavy brass one with a stylised M etched onto the face. The key to the door of Potter’s office in the Auror Department. All Ministry keys have that design. Draco clenches his hand around the keys and looks up and down the street. 

“Focus, Malfoy,” he tells himself firmly. What would Potter do? What would an Auror do?

Clues. He needs to look for clues. He turns in a slow circle, looking around.

There’s no blood on the ground. That’s good. That means that Potter was likely taken alive. But why take him at all? And _how_ had someone taken him in the first place? Potter’s a well-trained Auror. He’s deadly in a wandfight. Unless. What if they’d snuck up on him and Apparated him away, or taken him with a Portkey? Whoever did this must have known that a fight with Potter would be messy. They must have taken him so as not to attract attention as they fought.

Or as they killed him.

Draco’s blood goes cold. They could kill him. They might already have killed him. Potter might already be dead this very minute.

No. He can’t be. He _can’t_.

Fuck. He needs help. Draco doesn’t consider contacting the Ministry for an instant. There’s only one person he wants right now, only one Auror who cares for Potter as deeply as Draco does, who will leap into action and do everything in his power to find Potter before it’s too late.

Weasley and Granger live on the other side of London, and Draco doesn’t trust himself to Apparate there in his state. He’ll be no good to anyone if he manages to Splinch himself.

He hurries back into the house and heads straight for the Floo. He flings a handful of Floo powder in and announces, “The Weasley-Granger residence!”

The flames flicker grey before sputtering out. They’ve got the connection closed from their end.

“Fuck,” he spits, and grabs his wand, nearly Apparates then and there, but stops himself in time. Takes a deep breath, and thinks for a moment.

The fastest way to get ahold of someone is by Patronus. He’s seen Potter send his stag galloping off a time or two with a message for Weasley. 

Draco knows the charm. He’s never managed to cast one successfully, but he’s heard the story of Potter’s first Patronus. How he produced his first famous stag for the first time when his need was great.

And right now, Draco’s need has never been greater.

He takes a moment to focus, and brings up the memory of waking up in bed with Potter. Draco twirls his wand through the proper motion for the charm and cries out, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A feeble wisp of misty white energy spits from the tip of his wand, dissipating almost as soon as it’s formed. Draco tries again, and again and again and again, cycling through memories, but he’s not able to produce even that faint bit of energy a second time.

For a moment Draco stands in the middle of his living room, helpless.

And then he looks down at where he still holds Potter’s keys clutched in one hand.

He’s out the back door before he fully thinks about what he’s doing. He hauls open the door to the shed and rolls out the motorcycle, turns it on and engages the Notice-Me-Not Charms. He doesn’t bother with a helmet or with Protective Charms as he swings his leg over the seat and guns the engine. He engages the flying charms right away, and goes roaring up into the sky. His tyres barely clear the electrical wires, and then he’s streaking away over the city, lights passing by below so quickly that they unfurl from bright points into long streams. He pushes the motorcycle to its very limits, as fast as he can make it go, and ignores the sound of its straining engine.

Draco makes it across the city in record time, and circles the street twice before he spots where Weasley lives. He brings the motorcycle down, landing with a sharp jounce as he slams it into a parking spot and leaps off. A horrified Muggle looks on as Draco and a motorcycle suddenly pop into sight, and Draco lashes out with an _Obliviate_ , leaving the poor bloke reeling on the pavement, and takes the steps up to the Weasley-Granger’s front door two at a time and hammers on it with his fist until it swings open.

“It’s Potter,” he says to Weasley, pushing past him and into his house. “He’s gone missing.” He swallows, and forces himself to say, “He might already be dead. We need to find him _now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you read [If the Sun Goes Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707098) by pasdexcuses yet? If you haven't, this is a really great place to do so -- ITSGB and Chapter 13 cover approximately the same span of time so you won't have to wait to find out what happens next!
> 
> The last chapter of this fic was written with the assumption that you'll have read ITSGB first, so if you read the ending of this fic on its own it'll feel like you're not getting the whole story. So, I highly recommend jumping over to read ITSGB (if you haven't already) before you continue on to read Chapter 13. Thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

As Draco had known he would, Weasley leapt straight into action. He and Granger and Draco take the Floo to the Ministry, and Weasley leads the way to the Auror Department where he goes straight to Head Auror Robards and informs him that Potter’s missing under suspicious circumstances.

All available Aurors are immediately mobilised. More Aurors are called in. And at first Draco thinks that they’re reacting like this because their famous Boy Who Lived is in danger. But it’s not until he sees the way everyone looks worried that he realises that all this fuss is for _Harry_.

Amid all the running around, Draco gets shuffled off to the side, and he ends up sitting in one of the hideously uncomfortable chairs in the little waiting area by the front desk. His hands won’t stop shaking, so he tucks them under his knees and watches everyone else scramble. He’s never felt so useless in his life and, Merlin, this is his fault. This is all his fault. After a while, Granger comes and sits down beside him.

“They’ll find him,” she says, and he’s got no idea how she can sound so perfectly calm.

Potter is missing. Potter might be _dead_. And it’s Draco’s fault. He dragged Potter into this, selfishly hoping that Potter would save him, and all he’d succeeded in doing was handing over another victim to whoever’s trying to kill him. And the only reason they were able to get to Potter was because Draco tried to kiss him, Draco tried to press for more and then Potter had been distracted and upset when he went outside. If Draco hadn’t tried to kiss him, this wouldn’t have happened. His breath hitches.

“I’m serious,” Granger says. “Harry’s got himself into far worse scrapes than this. He’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” Draco says, and tries to believe it.

He must not sound convincing, because Granger gives him a stern look and says firmly, “I mean it. He will be. He survived a whole War with Voldemort trying to kill him. He’s not going to get himself bumped off by some garden variety arsehole.”

Draco stares at her, a little shocked. He’s not sure he’s heard her swear before now. And now that he’s looking at her, he sees the fear in her eyes. How she’s holding herself together through sheer determination to believe that she’s right about this, that Potter really is fine.

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right.”

“Of course I am,” she says.

They sit for a while, and Weasley comes by with periodic updates. A while later, a young Auror trainee comes by with two paper cups of tea, and Granger smiles and thanks him.

“This stuff is horrid,” she tells Draco after the young trainee walks off. “But it’ll wake you up.”

“Cheers, then,” Draco says, and taps the rim of his paper cup against hers before he takes a sip.

She’s right. It’s quite possibly the worst tea Draco’s had in his life.

He’s made it through about half of it when there’s a sudden commotion across the room, and Draco and Granger both look up. Weasley comes hustling over with another Auror close behind.

“Here,” Weasley says, pointing at Draco. “Here he is.”

“Draco Malfoy?” asks the Auror. “You’re listed as Harry Potter’s emergency contact.”

“Yes,” Draco says, heart thudding. “Yes, that’s me.”

“We’ve located him,” the Auror says. “He’s alive.”

* * * * *

 _Located_ turns out to be a bit of an exaggeration. Whoever kidnapped Potter left him right outside St Mungo’s. A young Healer about to start her overnight shift practically tripped over him on her way inside.

Draco and Weasley and Granger are whisked away to St Mungo’s, and then Granger and Weasley are asked to wait outside while Draco alone is allowed back into Potter’s room. It’s on the tip of his tongue to insist that Weasley be taken back instead of him. Weasley is Potter’s closest friend, and Draco is only here because of a whole stack of lies. But he’s still scared out of his mind and desperate to see Potter, and at his core Draco is enormously selfish. He cares more about seeing Potter than he does about doing what is right.

The Mediwitch ushers him inside and tells him that the Healer will be with him shortly, then she shuts the door, leaving Draco alone with Potter.

They’ve put him in a thin hospital gown before they tucked him into bed. He lies unnaturally still, stretched out on his back, arms straight at his sides. Draco watches the steady rise and fall of Potter’s chest for a few moments before he can work up the nerve to approach his bedside.

Potter looks strange to Draco without his glasses. He hasn’t been without them long, Draco guesses. He can still just make out the fading pink indentation on the bridge of his nose. The glasses are folded neatly on the small bedside table, and Draco cleans the smudged lenses with a spell before he reaches out and brushes Potter’s fringe back from his forehead, gently smooths his eyebrows, and then traces that famous lightning bolt scar with one careful fingertip.

The door swings open and Draco startles, snatching his hand back guiltily. The Healer looks up from his chart and gives Draco a polite smile.

“Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Draco says. “Do you know what’s happened to Harry?”

“He’s asleep,” the Healer says, and Draco bites his tongue lest he snap that he can see that very well for himself, thanks. The Healer continues, “It’s not natural, we know that much. But he’s uninjured. We’re running some tests to see what spell is affecting him, and we’ll know more once we’ve analysed the results.”

“And when will you know that?” Draco asks.

“We’ve received the results back from the initial set of tests, and unfortunately they’re inconclusive,” the Healer explains. “The second set should give us more of an idea of what we’re dealing with, but they take several hours to run.”

“Several hours?” Draco echoes.

“Several hours,” the Healer repeats. “I’d suggest that you take this time to go home—”

“But,” Draco interrupts. “What if he wakes up?”

“He won’t. We’re keeping him in an enchanted sleep until we know more,” the Healer says. “Not that we think that it’s necessary, but we’re not taking any chances.”

“But,” Draco says helplessly, and then has no idea what to say beyond that.

“I know this is difficult for you,” the Healer tells Draco. “But there’s nothing you can do here. My advice is go home. Try to get some rest.” He flips through the chart and nods to himself. “You’re listed as his emergency contact. Keep your Floo connection clear and I’ll contact you the very moment there’s any change in his condition.”

Draco looks at Potter lying in the hospital bed. There’s a chair beside it that looks as hideously uncomfortable as the ones in the Auror Department, but Draco will gladly sit his arse in it if that’s what it takes to stay at Potter’s bedside.

“I’d rather stay here,” he says.

The Healer nods. “If that’s what you’d prefer,” he says.

“It is,” Draco says.

When the Healer leaves, Draco takes a few minutes to comb his fingers through Potter’s hair. He tugs Potter’s collar straight and brushes a wrinkle from the blankets.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, then turns and leaves the room to inform Weasley and Granger what he’s been told. 

After he fills them in, Draco goes down to the lobby while Weasley and Granger are in with Potter and takes the Floo back to his house. He throws some things into a bag: several books, a change of clothes for him, and another change of clothes for Potter. Then he steps through the Floo and returns to St Mungo’s.

* * * * *

It’s midmorning the following day before they learn anything more about Potter’s condition.

“Amnesia,” Draco repeats, stunned.

“I’m afraid so,” the Healer says. “He’s had a very serious memory charm cast upon him, all of the tests are very clear about that. I’m afraid we won’t know how much of his memory has been affected until he wakes up.”

“And when will that be?” Draco asks.

“We’ve already brought him out of the enchanted sleep,” the Healer says. “But he’s still sleeping naturally, and it’s best to let him wake on his own. His mind is working to restructure itself beneath the memory spell he’s under, and it will happen faster while he’s asleep. In most cases, this can take a day or two.”

“Oh.”

The Healer gives him a sympathetic smile, and Draco wonders whether that’s part of what they learn in their training, to smile like that. “You should go home,” he says. “Get some rest while you can. We’ll contact you as soon as we know more.”

“Thank you,” Draco says faintly. He glances at Potter again. “I think I will.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay right here at Potter’s side. But they have no idea how much of Potter’s memory is affected. If the amnesia goes back further than eight months, Potter will wake up and have no idea at all why Draco is in his hospital room. And that, Draco thinks, is likely an experience that neither of them need to have. Potter doesn’t need the stress, and Draco is afraid Potter might lash out at him. He doesn’t think he could bear to see that.

“I’ll see you in a while,” he says, keeping his voice light and cheerful even though Potter’s not awake to hear him. He gives Potter’s hand a pat. “Wake up soon.”

He goes down to the lobby and takes the Floo to his shop where he gives Zelda an update on Potter’s condition and sends Balan off with a note to Weasley. Then he goes home and gets right to work, because he’s in desperate need of something to distract himself.

The very first thing he does is go straight up to Potter’s room and open his wardrobe. Potter has four pairs of shoes lying in a jumbled heap at the bottom of it, and Draco casts a strong Tracking Charm on every single one of them. If they’re ever separated again, if something else happens, Draco wants to be able to find him fast.

Down in the kitchen, the two mugs of tea are still sitting on the table, awaiting a conversation that will likely never happen. The spellwork on the mugs is only intended to keep a drink warm for an evening, and the tea is barely lukewarm by now. Draco dumps them both out, washes them, then puts Potter’s away in the cupboard and brews himself a fresh cup.

When it’s finished, he sits down at the table and cups his hand around the hot porcelain. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can feel the strong threads of Potter’s magic woven throughout it, humming steadily.

He keeps his hands around it even after he’s drunk the tea.

* * * * *

Two days later, he receives an owl summoning him to St Mungo’s. Potter is awake.

There’s no other information than that, and even though Draco had tried hard to not get his hopes up too high, had tried hard to prepare himself for the worst, it’s still a rude shock when he gets there and the Healer briskly informs him that Potter remembers nothing of the past two years.

He’s not proud that he loses his temper and raises his voice, because there’s got to be _something_ else they can do, some spell they can try to get his memories back quickly. Three nights ago, Potter was in love with Draco; that can’t just be _gone_. Panic seizes Draco, and it’s hard to breathe. That can’t be gone. Draco doesn’t have time to get it back.

“Draco!” Hermione says sharply. “That’s enough.”

Draco turns on her, and sees his own expression reflected back at him: bone-deep fear poorly hidden beneath a thin veneer of composure. He realises it distantly, and it’s not enough to stop him from opening his mouth because _how dare she_ when he’s only trying to make sure that everyone is doing everything they possibly can for Potter—

It’s for the best that before he can say anything, a desperately grateful voice calls out, “Hermione?” from behind the white curtain around Potter’s bed.

The curtain whips back and then there he is, and the fear in Draco releases in one vicious backlash that leaves him weak-kneed. Potter is sitting up, and oh, thank Merlin, he doesn’t look afraid. He looks uncertain, a bit unsettled, but not scared or in pain. When he catches sight of Weasley and Granger, he breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Granger catches Potter in an enormous hug, and Weasley pokes a bit of fun at him, and Draco hasn’t felt this much the outsider since his first Sunday at the Burrow.

Then Potter notices him. And the way he looks at Draco is exactly what Draco was most afraid of seeing. There’s no hostility to his expression, no anger or resentment. Just surprise and a vague sort of curiosity, as if he’s still working out why Draco’s here at all.

It’s terribly awkward for a few seconds, then Granger pastes a big bright smile on her face and announces, “Ron, let’s go find some tea,” before she loops her arm through Weasley’s and practically drags him from the room.

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Draco takes a deep breath and says, “So…”

“Why are you listed as my emergency contact?” Potter asks.

His tone knocks Draco off-balance. It’s the tone he takes on when he’s in Auror mode, when he’s looking for answers. It’s brisk and businesslike, and Draco hadn’t realised how much warmth Potter’s voice held for him until it’s suddenly gone.

“I… You suggested it,” he says helplessly.

Potter’s brow furrows. “Why would I do that?”

Why indeed. “You really don’t remember the past couple of years?” Draco asks instead to buy himself a bit of time. In his panic, he’d selfishly been focusing on how Potter’s amnesia would affect him, how alone it would leave Draco. How Potter wouldn’t remember his feelings for Draco.

And now, with Potter looking to him for answers in a St Mungo’s hospital room, it strikes Draco that there’s one more thing he’s alone in: Draco is now the only one who knows that their relationship is a sham.

“Not a single thing,” Potter says evenly, watching him.

“Right,” Draco says, and his heartbeat thuds through his veins. His palms grow damp and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rubs them against the thighs of his trousers, and he can hardly believe his own ears as he very earnestly says, “We’re living together, Harry.”

He doesn’t bother lying to himself, to try to explain this away as the path of least resistance that he’s taking out of necessity. That it would be better to go along with this until he can get Potter home and sit him down and explain about the curse. They have their emergency papers hidden away in the book on the coffee table, a whole letter penned in Potter’s own hand explaining exactly what is going on.

Draco knows he’s not going to do any of that.

He could convince Potter. He has the photographs of his second transformation and the emergency papers and the wounds on his back that won’t heal. Draco knows if he showed all of that to Potter, that Potter would believe him. And he knows that then Potter would do everything in his power to help. And Draco doesn’t want that. Two weeks aren’t enough to get Potter up to speed on everything, and quite frankly, if they haven’t been able to solve the case in this many months, how can they expect to do it in fourteen days? No. Draco would rather have a stretch of quiet, uneventful days with Potter at his side. And perhaps that’s selfish of him, but in a couple of weeks, there’s a good chance it won’t matter anymore.

“So we’re…” Potter begins and trails off. He frowns a little as he peers curiously up at Draco.

Draco takes two slow steps to the side of the bed and, telegraphing his movements, reaches down and takes Potter’s hand. “At the moment, Harry, we’re nothing but what we want us to be.”

His voice comes out steady, because he means that. He means that with every fibre of his being. He won’t take advantage of Potter, he won’t take a single thing that Potter’s not willing to give him. If for the next two weeks they only act as housemates, that’s fine. Draco will take that and be glad of it. But he’s hoping that perhaps over the next two weeks, they might get to the point where he could have a bit of physical affection from Potter. Nothing further than what they’d already done with each other dozens of times by now. A bit of hand-holding. Perhaps an arm around the shoulders. A few more dinners, a quiet night or two on the sofa. That’s all.

And all of that is comfort that Potter would freely give, Draco rationalises. That’s where he’ll draw the line. He won’t do anything that Potter hadn’t previously consented to.

For a moment, Draco lets himself believe that it will be just that easy. Then Potter tugs his hand free of Draco’s fingers and says, “I don’t even know you.” He’s not mean about it. It comes out a little too bewildered for that, but it still hurts. Potter notices and winces. “That was—”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco blurts out before he can go on. He has no idea what he’s apologising for. All of this, he guesses. Getting Potter hurt. Pulling Potter into this mess in the first place. All of it.

“It’s not your fault,” Potter tells him. He says it quickly, like a reflex. Even from a hospital bed, Potter’s first instinct is to take care of others, and oh, Draco hadn’t known he could feel any lower, but apparently he can.

“We had a fight before you went missing,” Draco says. He can’t bring himself to look at Potter. “If I hadn’t—” He pauses, swallowing down the rest of that sentence. If he hadn’t been selfish. If he hadn’t tried to take more than he was allowed to have. If he hadn’t pulled Potter into this mess in the first place.

Potter doesn’t say anything, just watches him like Draco might finish that sentence if he waits him out.

Instead, Draco inhales and says, “They’re letting you go tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Right,” Draco says awkwardly. His hands are still shaking. He tucks them into the pockets of his trousers.

“We’re really living together, then?” Potter asks after a moment, and when he looks at Draco, his gaze turns faintly appraising.

Draco can feel his cheeks going pink. “It was your idea,” he says, looking away, then again, softer, “It was all your idea.”

“I…”

“I think you need rest,” Draco says decisively. He needs out of this conversation. He needs to leave. His lungs have gone tight and he can feel his panic beginning to get the better of him.

“Malfoy,” Potter says.

“You know, you haven’t called me that in months.” The lie pops out of Draco’s mouth before he can think to stop it. Because if he’s going to pretend that he and Potter truly are in a relationship, he might as well get all he can out of it. He wants to hear Potter say his name.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says.

“No, it’s…” Draco begins, then gives him a weak smile and says, “You’re taking this much better than I would have.” Hell, he’s taking this much better than Draco _is_.

“I wish I could remember,” Potter says, then then looks startled by his admission.

“You’re too noble, Harry,” Draco tells him, and looks away. “I…” He takes a breath. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He gives Potter a smile and then slips from the room and into the hall where he nearly bumps into Granger and Weasley, who are carrying four paper cups between them.

“Leaving already?” Granger asks, glancing at the door to Potter’s room.

“Yes,” Draco says. “I explained our relationship, and I.” He clears his throat. “Well. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? I thought it best to give him a bit of space right now.”

Weasley nods understandingly.

“Well, here,” Granger says, offering one of the cups to Draco. “We thought you’d be around a bit longer, so we brought you tea.”

“Knowing how notoriously awful St Mungo’s tea is, I’m not sure whether or not I should thank you,” Draco says, forcing a smile as he takes the cup. That gets a small laugh out of Granger.

“You should definitely thank me,” Granger says. “I got you chamomile. I _could_ have got you that awful one that smells like rotting rose petals.”

“Well in that case,” Draco says, and manages a bit of a smile. “Thank you.” He licks his lips and glances back at the door to Potter’s room. “Take care of him for me, all right? I’m going to go get the house ready for him.”

Weasley gives him an odd look. “What have you got to get ready? He already lives there.”

“Yes, but, all things considered, I think it’s best if I move my things into the guest room,” Draco says. “I think we’ll both be more comfortable with me in there.”

Granger and Weasley exchange a look, awkward and sympathetic, and Draco forces a smile before they can say anything and trap him here in more uncomfortable conversation.

“Well, I suppose I’ll see you around,” he says, then nods, toasts them with his paper cup, and strides away down the hall.

* * * * *

Draco does his best to keep himself busy until it’s time to go collect Potter from St Mungo’s the following day.

When he gets home after speaking to Potter after he’d first woken up, the very first thing Draco does is go through their house room by room, top to bottom, to make absolutely certain that everything related to his curse is safely hidden. All of the books in the library upstairs are Charmed with false covers, and Draco collects all the files Potter’s made about the other curse victims and hides them under his mattress. Draco keeps the book of Chinese mythology in his room, and that in and of itself is not incriminating, should Potter happen to see it. Which, frankly, Draco doubts will happen. Potter has no reason to set foot in Draco’s room, and he’s always been very good about respecting Draco’s private space, just as Draco has always respected his. He has no reason to believe that’ll change just because Potter doesn’t remember a couple of years.

Satisfied that Potter won’t come across anything that will raise questions, Draco goes through the regular chores. He casts Cleaning Charms and does the laundry, makes a grocery list, and hangs a fresh tea towel over the handle of the oven. He changes the sheets on Potter’s bed and his own bed and puts a bunch of fresh flowers in the vase by the door. He ends the afternoon tending to the back garden. Mrs Field comes to the fence to say hello, and Draco very seriously explains that Potter’s had an accident, that he’s hit his head and is having some memory troubles, and yes he’s fine, he’s coming home tomorrow, but he might be a little confused and his doctors have said it’s best for his recovery if everyone tries to keep things as normal as possible for him.

Draco contacts his parents later that evening to update them on Potter’s condition. He explains that the Healers have said that Potter needs time to settle in before he reintroduces them, that he needs to rebuild his routine one step at a time and Draco thinks it’s best if he waits a few weeks before he starts bringing Potter round for dinner on Mondays again. To the Weasleys, Draco says that Potter needs peace and quiet and calm, and that after he’s had a few weeks to recover they’ll resume their Sunday dinners at the Burrow, he just wants to get Potter settled in at home again first.

Guilt prickles at him as he spins these half-truths. But in two weeks, it very likely won’t matter anymore, will it? It’s down to the flip of a coin.

Everyone is very sympathetic and very understanding, and Molly even gives Draco a hug when he sees her the following morning.

He’s stopped by the Burrow to drop off Potter’s motorcycle, which the Weasleys have agreed to store in the broomshed behind their house until Potter’s recovered the memory of how to operate it. He’d only got it working again less than a year ago, so the memory of how to safely operate it is lost along with the rest of his memories.

“I just know that if he sees it, he’ll try to ride it,” Draco says. “You know how he is.” He shrugs, sheepish, and adds, “You know how I worry.”

Molly nods along. “He’s never met a challenge he didn’t want to face straight on,” she says, then lowers her voice and says, conspiratorially, “He’s so like his godfather. The motorcycle belonged to Sirius, you know.”

“Oh,” says Draco. He hadn’t known, but that certainly explains why it’s so precious to Potter. He’s even more glad, now, that he didn’t go mucking around with the enchantments on it when he added the Notice-Me-Not Charm.

“You wouldn’t believe the grey hairs I got from watching him and Ron fix it up.” She shakes her head, exasperated, and Draco nods sympathetically. “Especially when they got around to testing the flying charms on it. My heart nearly stopped when Potter tried to take it up into the air the first time and fell.”

“I can imagine,” Draco says, and he can.

Molly insists on feeding him lunch, and she sends him home with a couple of pies. Draco thanks her and drops the pies off at home before he takes the Floo to St Mungo’s to pick up Potter. He’s running a bit late and he feels frazzled and exhausted. He hadn’t slept well at all without Potter in the house. It felt too big and too empty and too quiet, and Draco stayed up too late reading books about recovering from memory spells gone wrong. Eventually he’d gone to bed, and then lay awake and wondered whether this was at all close to how Potter felt each full moon while Draco was gone.

Potter comes with him agreeably enough as they sign him out and walk outside. But he stops short when Draco opens the door of the cab he’d called for them, utterly baffled that Draco would know what to do with it. He looks even more baffled when the cab delivers them to their Muggle house. He greets Mrs Field, who’s out for a walk and thankfully doesn’t press for details about Potter.

Draco leads the way up the path to their front door, and unlocks it and steps inside. He feels stiff and uncomfortable around Potter, in a way that he hasn’t since the very beginning. He’s unsure what to say or do, afraid to push him too hard, but also afraid of putting too much distance between them. It feels as though there are dozens of paths branching out before him, all tangled together, and Draco has no idea which one leads back to where they were. Which one he should take to make Potter love him again. If there’s even time to make that happen.

Tea, that’s always a safe option. They should have tea. Maybe talk for a while. Get to know each other again.

“I can make us both—” Draco begins, then breaks off when he sees Potter staring at the photographs.

They’d added more after that first one, and now there are about a dozen different pictures of them together, smiling, laughing, with others in the picture or just the two of them. Potter’s arm is around Draco in one, and Draco’s holding Potter’s hand in another. They’re always by each other’s sides, even when other people are in the photographs as well.

“I thought about taking them down,” Draco says, moving to stand beside Potter. He lets his shoulder brush against Potter’s. He wishes Potter would put his arm around him. “But I read somewhere last night that things can help trigger memories.”

Potter reaches out and picks up one of the framed photographs, the one Arthur Weasley had sent home with them the night of their birthday party, and Draco can’t bring himself to look at it. He watches Potter’s face instead. He looks almost awed as he stares down at it. It must be a shock to see how in love with each other they look.

“When was this?” Potter asks softly. He glances up at Draco. “Malfoy?”

“About four months ago,” he answers. He tries to keep his voice calm. “Joint birthday party for us.” He takes a deep breath, and says, “I can show you around the rest of the house.”

The house is small and there’s nothing here that Potter wouldn’t have been able to figure out on his own, but it helps Draco to have something to do. He takes Potter around and shows him room by room. Downstairs is fine, but he can practically feel the nerves radiating from Potter as Draco shows him the library and the upstairs bathroom, and he knows what he’s expecting. 

He holds tight to the doorknob of his bedroom. “I moved my things in here,” he explains, and Potter looks surprised.

He’d expected them to share, Draco realises. And there is a small, shameful part of Draco that regrets not taking advantage of that.

“I have to get to work,” Draco says, and then adds, “I own an apothecary in Diagon Alley.”

It’s not until after Potter says, very eloquently, “Oh,” that Draco realises what a stupid thing that was to say. Potter’s only lost the last two years of his memories; Draco has owned his shop for nearly four.

“There’s Floo powder next to the fireplace downstairs,” Draco goes on quickly. He shuts the door to his bedroom and pushes past Potter, careful to not touch him. He heads downstairs, going on, “Mrs Weasley sent over some pies, it’s all in the kitchen. And…” He pauses and glances back at Potter. “If you need anything, let me know.”

It’s not until he’s outside that it occurs to him that he didn’t call for a cab. Frankly, he should have told the cabbie who’d driven them from St Mungo’s to wait for him, but he’d thought he’d be here for longer than this.

Seeing Potter look around the home they’d made here together without an ounce of recognition had shaken Draco. He’d known about the amnesia. He’d seen how Potter looked at him yesterday at St Mungo’s. But it wasn’t until seeing him here, following Draco from room to room and looking around with the polite curiosity of a guest being shown his host’s home, that it really sunk in. He doesn’t remember anything.

Draco starts walking, heading for the small park nearby. There are a few people at one end of it, where a small playground has been set up. He recognises Mrs Field sitting on the bench with another young mother, chatting while their babies play together on a blanket. She doesn’t notice Draco, and he hurries along the path to the gazebo at the far end before she can catch sight of him.

As he’d expected, there’s no-one around, and the gazebo affords him some amount of privacy. He climbs up the two shallow steps and stands in the middle of it, peering around to make certain that no Muggles are within eyesight before he takes out his wand and Apparates.

He lands in the middle of the living room of his flat. It’s strange to see it like this, stripped of all his possessions. His bed still sits in the window alcove, and his sofa looks forlorn there all by itself against the wall. They’re using Potter’s sofa at the house, and Draco’s armchair and coffee table have joined it. His vintage wizard’s wireless has gathered a thick coating of dust, and the air smells stale. Draco casts a few cleaning charms around before he leaves the flat and goes downstairs.

Zelda’s got the wireless in the potions lab playing quietly while she works, and she jumps a bit when she notices him come up behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Well, last I checked this is my shop,” he tells her dryly as he rolls up his sleeves and walks over to the chalkboard to see what needs to be done today.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “Did they need to keep Potter at St Mungo’s for longer?”

“No,” Draco says. “He’s at home.”

“And you left him there?” she asks, as incredulous as if Draco had just announced he’d put Potter on a raft and sent him out to sea.

“Well he does live there,” Draco says peevishly.

“You know what I mean,” she tells him, then picks up a glass stirring rod and dips it into the cauldron before her. “He’s lost his memory. Shouldn’t you be there helping him settle in?”

“He doesn’t remember any of our relationship,” Draco says, turning away to read over the chalkboard. “Two years ago, we were barely on speaking terms. This is all a bit overwhelming for him, and I think we’ll both benefit from some time away from each other to let it sink in.”

“Draco!”

“I told you—” he begins.

“No, not that. Your back is bleeding.” Zelda drops her stirring rod on the worktable and hurries over.

Draco freezes, then turns to put his back against the wall. He rolls his shoulders and, oh, fuck. Yes. His shirt is sticking uncomfortably to the wounds that never seem to heal anymore.

“What happened?” Zelda asks, trying to get around him for a better look at it, and he turns with her to keep her from seeing.

“Nothing,” he says. Then swallows down his nerves and takes a page from Potter’s book. “Look, it’s fine. It, ah. It’s a long story that involves Potter and. Well. Not a lot of clothing.” He can feel his cheeks going pink, but that can only help his case here, can’t it, if he seems flustered?

“Oh,” Zelda says, stopping short. “Well. You should go take care of it.”

“It’s from earlier this week,” he blurts out. He doesn’t want her to think he’s taking advantage of Potter.

“No,” says Zelda, slapping her hands over her ears. “I don’t want details. Go, go take care of it.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you—”

“La-la-la-la-la-la!” Zelda says loudly, hands still clamped firmly to the side of her head. “I can’t hear a single word you’re saying about your kinky sex life.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco says, then shouts at her, “Keep stirring your Elating Elixir or your cauldron’s going to boil over.”

“Shit,” Zelda says, darting back to the worktable and snatching up the stirring rod. The potion has frothed up and she gives it a couple of brisk stirs, and the bubbles subside.

Draco leaves her to it and heads upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. The tiny bathroom of his flat feels even more claustrophobic now that he’s used to the bigger one of his Muggle home. Draco shrugs out of his shirt, pulls off his undershirt, and twists to look at his back in the mirror.

The two big gashes look terrible, raw and oozing blood. Draco doesn’t even bother trying to treat them with potions. Those have stopped having any effect, so Draco’s moved on from trying to heal the wounds to merely treating their symptoms. It takes some finagling, but he manages to seal both of them with a charm Potter had taught him last month. It’s one he learned in his Field Injury & Triage class, a way to seal up wounds until the injured person can be taken to St Mungo’s. Then he carefully spells the bloodstains from his clothes and dresses again before going back downstairs.

When he returns to the lab, Zelda doesn’t say a word about his back. She’s turned up the wireless a little and is singing along under her breath. Draco pulls out a copper cauldron and begins to gather up the ingredients he’ll need.

And it’s nice. The routine and order of brewing helps to ground him. The tangled mess of feelings in his chest loosens a little as he loses himself in slicing up ingredients and stirring them together. He brews a series of headache potions and a muscle relaxant, and then Zelda stops him before he can start on another.

“Go home,” she tells him. “You’ve been here all afternoon.”

Draco sighs a little. “I should,” he says. He can admit to himself that he’s been hiding here. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I can run the shop without you, if you need some time away,” Zelda says.

“I know you can,” Draco tells her, and thinks of the papers he’s got filed with his solicitor. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Zelda waves at him, and Draco Apparates back to the gazebo in the park. No-one’s seen his sudden arrival, though a Muggle man with a puppy on a leash is peering confusedly up into the sky. Draco nods to him as they pass each other on the pavement a minute later, and heads for home.

The house is still and quiet when he lets himself inside, locks the door after himself, and drops his keys into the bowl. Did Potter go out? But no, his keys are there in the bowl, right beside Draco’s. Frowning, he quietly takes off his shoes and then tiptoes forward on socked feet.

He takes a peek into the living room and, as he should have expected, Potter is stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.

Draco goes into the kitchen for a glass of water to wet his throat, which has gone suddenly dry. Because finding Potter asleep on the sofa is familiar. And he has to go wake him up in a moment, but until then, it feels as though everything is all right. Selfishly, he wants to prolong that feeling as long as he’s able.

He opens the cupboard to get a glass, and then stares because they’re not as he’d left them. The glasses ought to sit in perfectly straight rows, and here they’re uneven. The mug handles are pointing the wrong way. The dishes and bowls are pushed too far to the back of the cupboards, and Draco is afraid to look at what sort of chaos might be lurking in the silverware drawer.

“Merlin,” Draco mutters to himself, still staring at all the dishes in disarray. He can’t see a single thing that _hasn’t_ been moved into the wrong place. “All this time I’ve been accusing you of doing it on purpose, and here it turns out it was natural bloody talent all along.”

He flicks his wand and the plates and bowls and glasses all shuffled themselves obediently back into place. He gets his glass and fills it with an _Aguamenti_ , and drinks it in long, smooth gulps. Then he puts it in the sink and goes to wake Potter.

Even though he’s tried to prepare himself for it, he’s done this so many times that habit takes over. He strokes his fingers through Potter’s hair.

“Harry,” he says gently. “Harry, wake up.”

Potter’s head lolls a bit to the side, then he blinks his eyes open, frowning a little as he shakes off sleep. And all of that is familiar. But instead of the frown easing into a smile, it deepens. He looks almost disappointed to see Draco, and although Draco knew this would happen, it’s surprising how much it hurts.

“Sorry,” he says, taking his hand away from Potter’s head. “But sleeping on the sofa will give you a crick in your neck.”

“Right,” Potter says, sitting up.

And then Potter asks him, “How was your day?” with just a touch of awkwardness, as if they’re a pair of old acquaintances who’d unexpectedly bumped into each other and didn’t know what else to say. They’ll probably end up discussing the weather, next.

He ends up suggesting a trip for groceries, and Potter agrees. He still seems bemused that Draco is so adept at moving through the Muggle world, and Draco tells him a little bit about their life together. And it’s fine. All of that goes fine. It’s not until they’re back home and putting the groceries away that it goes bad.

Potter had gone quiet on the walk back to the house, and has remained so as he is takes things out of the bags and stacks them on the kitchen counter for Draco to put away. Whatever he’s mulling over, Draco leaves him to it.

“You hated Muggles when I last saw you,” Potter finally says, apropos of nothing.

“I wouldn’t use the word _hate_ ,” Draco says, trying not to sound nearly as shaken as he feels by Potter’s question. It’s been so long since he thought like that that it’s a bit of a shock to have Potter be surprised that he’s changed. He picks up a bag of peaches.

“Whatever word you would use, I doubt anyone who knew you would’ve thought you’d end up living amongst Muggles,” Potter goes on.

Draco finishes putting the peaches in the refrigerator and closes the door. He leans his forehead briefly against the stainless steel and takes a deep breath before he straightens again. He should have expected this.

“Circumstances change,” he says quietly.

“Yes, but you’re like a completely different person!” Potter says. He sounds angry about it, frustrated and almost disappointed. As though, what, he’d prefer Draco to be the same stupid _child_ he’d been back at Hogwarts.

Draco clenches his jaw to keep from shouting back. It will do neither of them any good for this conversation to escalate any further. “Is that really so bad?” he asks.

“No, but—”

“I’m sorry if I’m disappointing you by not cursing Muggles left and right,” Draco cuts him off, the threads of his temper fraying. “I’m sorry if that’s confusing for you. Shall I go out and bring you the head of one of your neighbours? Would that make it all right?” He’s angry but not angry enough to verbalise the rest of his thoughts. _I can cast a_ Morsmordre _or two, and you can cut me open from neck to navel and leave me to bleed out on the floor. It will be just like the old days, because weren’t those just so much better than this?_

They stare at each other, wands in hand. Potter has shifted his feet into a duelling stance. And abruptly, Draco is so, so tired of all of this.

 _Two weeks, two weeks_ , echoes through Draco’s head. And this, all of this, feels impossible. He’d wanted to spend his last days with Potter, but this isn’t _his_ Potter. This is _Harry Potter_ , and Draco doesn’t know him at all.

He raises his wand to put away the rest of the groceries, and Potter snaps his wand up and smoothly shifts his stance from a neutral position to an offensive one.

“For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, and stabs his wand at the groceries piled haphazardly on the counter. Fruit and veg fly through the air to deposit themselves neatly into the refrigerator, boxes of pasta and cereal and a canister of oats slot themselves into the cupboards, and the empty paper bags fold themselves up. “I’m going to bed,” he says, and leaves the kitchen without waiting for a reply or looking at Potter.

He doesn’t stomp as he goes up the stairs and locks himself in the bathroom. He turns up the water as hot as he can stand it, then takes off his clothes and gets into the shower. His skin stings and turns pink, and Draco stays under it until thick clouds of steam swirl against the ceiling, and the worst of his anger has been washed away.

Tugging the shower curtain aside, Draco steps out of the bathtub and dries off, and dresses in a clean set of flannel pyjamas. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, and then goes into his bedroom and shuts the door, and gets into bed to read for a while. He thinks for a moment about going downstairs and getting something to eat, but his stomach is in knots and he thinks putting something in it will only make his nausea worse.

Near midnight, he sets aside his book and sits up, swings his feet out of bed and then stops. He hasn’t heard Potter come upstairs yet, and force of habit had Draco getting ready to go get him. But then he thinks of waking up Potter from his nap this evening. He thinks of the disappointed way Potter had looked at him, and how contemptuously he’d glared at Draco down in the kitchen when he’d raised his wand against him.

Draco swings his feet back into bed and pulls his duvet over himself. He turns out his lamp, and leaves Potter down there to his sofa and his stiff neck.

* * * * *

He has the Prometheus dream again. Draco’s been having it once every couple of weeks since he and Potter did all that research on mythology. Except this time Draco is not Prometheus. This time he’s the eagle. Potter is Prometheus, chained down and helpless while Draco rips into him over and over, tearing into his liver and swallowing each bloody piece whole while Potter cries and screams and begs him to stop.

Draco wakes up choking.

He jerks upright, and nearly retches. His mouth tastes like old metal and spoiled meat. He’d bitten into his tongue at some point last night, and there’s a bloody patch of drool staining his pillowcase. He rubs at the corner of his mouth, and dislodges the gummy clots of brown blood that had dried there.

“Ugh,” he says, and is answered by a tap at the window. “For fuck’s sake, go away,” he says without raising the curtain, then goes into the bathroom and scrubs the foul taste from his mouth.

Draco skips his shower this morning since he’d taken one the night before, but he freshens up with a few charms and dresses neatly for the day. It alters his routine enough that he doesn’t quite expect to see Potter stumbling from his room with soft bleary eyes and a rumbly, “Morning, Malfoy,” and therefore Draco isn’t quite disappointed when it doesn’t happen.

Potter never made it up to his bed last night. He’s fast asleep, with his face mashed into the sofa cushions, his neck bent at an angle that makes Draco cringe just looking at it, and one hand trailing onto the floor.

Sighing, Draco uses a very gentle _Wingardium_ to lift Potter’s hand back onto the cushions so he won’t wake with pins-and-needles in his fingers, and then leaves him there. He hasn’t quite forgiven him for what he’d said last night, and Draco refuses to reward bad behaviour with bacon and eggs. He’ll stop by the coffeeshop on Diagon for a drink and a croissant. His stomach’s still a bit tetchy, anyhow. He’d best have something lighter this morning.

Draco puts on his shoes, takes his keys from the bowl by the door, and slips outside. Mr Tillman, who lives on the other side from Mrs Field, is outside watering his roses.

“Good morning,” he calls out, and Mr Tillman waves.

“Where are you off to this fine morning?” Mr Tillman asks when Draco draws nearer.

“The shops,” Draco tells him. “I have to pick up a few things before going to work.”

“Well, have a good day,” Mr Tillman tells him. “Enjoy this lovely weather! It’s supposed to turn soon.”

“Thank you,” Draco says. “I will.”

Indeed, the day is clear and bright, the sky a perfect blue stretched above, and Draco takes a deep breath of fresh air as he walks down the pavement. He’ll Apparate from the gazebo again, the thinks. That will be the easiest way for him to get to Diagon.

There is a congregation of starlings clustered in the branches of an oak tree, and as Draco passes beneath them, they all burst into flight.

* * * * *

Draco doesn’t know why he’s surprised to come home to find Potter there. He wouldn’t have been surprised to come home and find that Potter had gone for a walk or something to minimise the amount of time he has to spend with Draco. He also wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Potter had packed up his things and gone to stay with Weasley.

But for some reason, it’s surprising to walk into the kitchen and find Potter putting on a kettle, enough that Draco blurts out, “You’re here.”

Potter glances at him over his shoulder. “Tea?” he asks instead of responding to Draco’s ridiculous observation with something like, _Are you sure you don’t need glasses?_ or even just a simple, _Well, obviously,_ delivered along with a roll of his eyes.

“Please,” Draco says and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He can feel Potter’s eyes on him as he fiddles with his cuff. He wonders what Potter’s thinking.

When the kettle is hot, Potter gets out their mugs and pours their tea, and Draco watches him. He’s unsure how to ask for the green one. Which is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it. Both mugs are the same. The green one won’t disappear if Potter drinks from it, and the yellow one is just as good. But the green one is _his_.

Potter sets it in front of him on the table, and Draco picks it up and says, “Hm,” small and pleased as he takes a sip. And it’s not until after he swallows that he realises that Potter never asked him how he took his tea.

Across the table, Potter is tracing the tip of his finger around the rim of his mug. He’s working himself up to something, and Draco takes another sip of tea, giving him time, until finally Potter clears his throat, calling Draco’s attention.

“About last night…” Potter says at last.

Draco looks up. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Potter tells him, then swallows and shakes his head a little. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You know,” Draco breaks in, “for the ridiculous amount of planning we’ve done, this particular scenario never quite made it into our contingency plans.”

Potter frowns at him. “What sort of plans?”

“Oh, this and that,” Draco tells him, and takes another sip of tea.

He expects Potter to press the point, and Draco prepares a line about how, given their respective pasts and a healthy fear of potential public backlash, Potter had insisted on making plans for every worst case scenario they could think up.

But he doesn’t ask about it. Instead he watches Draco for a long moment.

“Are you all right?” Potter asks, and Draco looks up at him. “You look like—” He hesitates, and Draco can just tell he’s swallowing back something rude before he finishes, “like you haven’t slept well.”

Last week, Potter wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Draco he looks like shit. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes,” Draco tells him. He can’t look at Potter without thinking of that dream. The phantom feel of liver sliding over his tongue, smooth and body-warm, makes his stomach twist.

“You know,” Potter says after a moment. “I didn’t mean anything last night. I was just…” He rubs at his shoulder, then finishes, “confused.”

Draco manages to dredge up a smirk. “I tried to warn you about the sofa,” he says. Then sighs a little and figures he may as well address it, otherwise Potter will just keep bringing it up over and over. “And to be honest, I’m rather surprised your outburst took so long.”

Potter’s brows knit together as he frowns a little. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not exactly what I would call patient,” Draco says dryly. Then he stands and walks over to the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?” he asks. Dinner sounds good right now, even though his stomach is still unsettled from nerves. But he’d really like something to do with his hands.

“Sure,” Potter says, leaning back in his chair.

Draco busies himself setting out ingredients, tomatoes, onions, garlic, oregano. He sets the spice aside and charms a knife to chop the rest. Potter doesn’t bat an eye at it, nor does he say anything when Draco swishes his wand and a pot comes sailing out of a cupboard, or when Draco fills it up with an _Aguamenti_. And it’s not until Draco charms a wooden spoon to give the sauce pot an occasional stir that he realises he’s waiting for Potter to say something about _no magic in the house, Malfoy, we agreed_.

Another swish of his wand gets out the package of pasta while Draco waits for the water to come to a boil. The wooden spoon jumps up, stirs the pot, and puts itself back on the counter. 

Potter laughs, and Draco glances back to find him reading the label on the package of pasta.  
And the way Potter’s smiling feels like an arrow to the chest all over again.

“Where did you get that?” Potter asks.

“Same Muggle shop where I get the wine,” Draco says. He doesn’t dare turn around. And speaking of… 

Draco looks through the bottles, and passes over the merlot in favour of a nice cabernet sauvignon. The merlot is the pig-in-a-wig bottle, and Draco doesn’t think he can stand to hear Potter laugh over it right now. The one he picks out has an eagle on the bottle. It’s the last of four, which Potter had brought home several weeks ago. They’ve already gone through the bordeaux, which had a lion, and the pinot grigio, which had a snake, and the chardonnay, which had a weasel.

“They didn’t have any with badgers,” Potter had explained as he’d set them on the counter. “But weasels are in the same family as them, along with polecats and otters,” and Draco had given him long and incredulous look before he replied, “I’m honestly curious how much of your brain is utterly wasted on useless bits of trivia. Polecats, really?” And Potter grinned and shrugged and they’d shared the Hufflepuff bottle that night.

“Plates, please,” Draco says without thinking, and it isn’t until Potter’s up and walking to the cupboard that he remembers that the agreement about magic in the house is functionally nonexistent now, and he could have got the plates himself. “Thank you,” he says when Potter sets them at his elbow.

Draco charms the utensils to serve up a couple of plates, then he takes the bottle of wine and a couple of wine glasses to where Potter is waiting at the table. He pours them each a glass, then downs his because fuck this. He’s going to need a good head start with the wine to make it through dinner.

“You might want to pace yourself,” Potter says as Draco’s pouring a second glass for himself.

He blinks across the table at him, but there’s no recognition in Potter’s eyes for what he’s just said. And it’s a strange sort of torture, to have him be so like himself while also being so unlike the Potter that Draco’s used to that he might as well be a total stranger. And Draco has no idea whether he wants to laugh or cry. He takes another sip of wine and manages a small laugh.

“What is it?” Potter asks suspiciously.

Draco can’t look away from him. “Nothing,” Draco says. “Just, you’re so you. Even when you’re… Well. You know.”

Potter lapses mostly into silence for the rest of the meal, and Draco finishes off most of the wine by himself. He’s a little tipsy by the time they finish eating. Normally when they have wine with dinner, they pace themselves, and end up taking the remainder of the bottle out into the living room with them. So Draco’s feeling it a little more than he usually does when he stands up and picks up his plate, and reaches out to take Potter’s, too.

“I can get it,” Potter says.

“I don’t mind,” Draco tells him, hand still outstretched. He gives his fingers an impatient little waggle.

But Potter doesn’t hand over the plate. Instead he picks up his wine glass, too, and takes both over to the sink. “No, really. You made dinner, I can clean up.”

He starts running water into the sink, and Draco reluctantly sets his plate and glass on the counter. “I’ll dry and put away,” he says.

Things are different now, and it’s so hard for Draco keep that in mind when they’re like this, settled into the easy routine of cleaning up the kitchen together. He nearly reaches out to steady himself against Potter’s back as he leans around him to grab a tea towel, but he snatches his hand back just in time. They haven’t touched each other at all since Draco woke Potter up after his nap on the sofa, and Draco’s a little afraid to try, now. He tries not to think of the look on Potter’s face when he’d seen Draco, but sometimes it pops into Draco’s head unbidden.

“Dish soap?” Potter asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh. Here,” Draco says. Potter steps aside as Draco opens up the cupboard under the sink and retrieves a clear bottle of blue goop that Muggles use to wash their dishes with.

Potter pours a generous dollop in the bottom of the sink and plugs up the drain, then sets the bottle aside. Suds begin to pile up in a mound around the stream of water jetting from the faucet. Potter sniffs, then frowns and sniffs again. He looks utterly baffled.

“Is something wrong?” Draco asks.

“No,” Potter says, leaning over the sink and sniffing again. “It’s just… Well, it’s a bit silly, I guess, because it’s not even yellow. I don’t know why I expected it to smell like lemons.”

* * * * *

It doesn’t take long to fall into a new pattern. And though Draco still longs to have his version of Potter back, this one isn’t so bad now that they’re getting used to each other. It’s still tremendously frustrating, though. It feels a bit like reaching the exciting part of a story and then having to start back at the beginning. Now that he knows where it leads, he’s eager to pick up where he left off.

But he forces himself to be patient. Draco goes off to work each morning, and each evening he arrives home before Potter, who spends each day with Weasley and Granger, and comes home when Draco is halfway through cooking dinner. Potter usually lingers in the kitchen, and Draco can usually persuade him to help by opening up a bottle of wine or setting the table while Draco finishes up with their meal.

It’s the first week of November when Draco slips. He’s distracted, going over an experimental potion that’d gone horribly wrong today at work, when he squeezes between the table and Potter, who’s at the counter wrestling with the corkscrew. He unthinkingly puts his hand against the small of Potter’s back, something he’s done dozens of times before, and feels how Potter goes tense.

“Just need to grab these,” Draco says lightly, waggling the pair of tongs at Potter. He removes his hand as quickly as he’s able to without seeming suspicious, then he retreats to the other side of the kitchen, heart pounding.

Draco would have let it go at that. He would have clamped down on the sharp yearning that lances through him at finally, finally touching him again. He would have done his best to put it from his mind and kept his hands to himself from now on, if it weren’t for the way Potter kept sneaking looks at him.

So the next night, Draco does it again. He leans around Potter to get a measuring cup from the cupboard that he didn’t strictly need for the meal he’s cooking, and steadies himself with a brief touch of his fingertips to Potter’s arm. And that time, Draco could swear that Potter leaned into his side as he did it.

And so he keeps doing it, until he’s back to doing it as he was before: naturally, and without thinking. Sometimes Potter watches him afterward. Sometimes Draco could swear that Potter leans into the touch, though it’s always subtle enough that he questions himself afterward.

One time, Potter touches him back, coming up beside him at the counter and bumping Draco out of the way with a hip so that he can get out a teaspoon, and Draco’s left struggling to contain himself, to keep his expression something carefully neutral so as not to give himself away.

It’s difficult. He’s close to his next transformation and he’s exhausted. He has nightmares every night, and for the past two days he’s had a vicious headache that potions will not touch. His back keeps bleeding. He’s barely hanging on, and it’s only because of the steady predictability of his routine that he’s able to keep putting one foot in front of the other and pushing himself onward one day at a time.

All of that goes right out the window on the day before the full moon.

Draco had taken the files Potter made for the other curse victims and hidden them away in his room. He’d been very careful of that. He hadn’t realised that Potter had copies of them at his office at work. He’d brought them home the other night, and Draco had thought he’d done a convincing job of shrugging it off. But apparently it hadn’t been good enough, because he comes home on Saturday evening to find Potter sitting at the kitchen table with those files stacked up in front of him.

And Draco is tired. He’s so tired, and his head hurts, and his back has already begun aching faintly, and he’s probably going to die tomorrow night. All he wanted was one last quiet evening at home. He wanted to have dinner with Potter, and he wanted to touch Potter one last time as they moved around the kitchen together, and he wanted to spend a few hours afterward in companionable silence on the sofa in the living room. He wanted to hear the words, “Goodnight, Draco,” before he went up to bed. He _wanted_.

Instead he got an argument. He’d seen it coming, as inevitable as an ocean wave bearing down on the shoreline, and tried to deflect. He’d said he wasn’t feeling well, that he wasn’t up to this tonight, that he didn’t recognise those files. But Potter pressed and pressed, and the wave crashed down.

“Stop lying to me!” Potter shouts after Draco tells him he’d never seen those files before. “Stop pretending you give a fuck! What is it, did you trick me into dating you so you could get some twisted revenge? Or maybe your Death Eater buddies bribed you so you could all have a good laugh? Or maybe—”

“Fuck you,” Draco tells him, then again, louder, “Fuck you, Potter.”

And then he turns around and leaves Potter in the kitchen.

Draco goes up to his room and slams the door shut and wards it heavily. He hasn’t eaten and he hasn’t showered and he hasn’t brushed his teeth. But what’s the point, what’s the point of any of it? Why on earth would he bother brushing his teeth when he’s going to die tomorrow night? He strips off his clothes and pulls on his pyjamas, crawls into his bed, and then because he’s alone and he’s scared and, oh Merlin, he’s going to die, he cries into his pillow until, utterly wrung out, he drops suddenly into sleep.

* * * * *

To his surprise, Draco wakes up the following morning without having dreamt at all. He feels strangely at peace. He feels curiously light with the remnants of that smooth-edged hollow feeling that comes from a good cry.

Draco goes into the bathroom to clean up, then goes back to his room and dresses for the day. Potter’s door is ajar and Draco can hear him breathing, deep and slow and even. He smiles a little to himself as he passes by and goes downstairs.

He’s feeling much calmer about their argument this morning. Potter’s Death Eater accusation doesn’t cut quite so deep in the light of day. He was angry, and he lashed out and said horrible things that he didn’t mean. And it’s fine. It’s nothing that Draco himself hasn’t done a thousand times in his life. He understands. Potter’s under a lot of stress. He’s missing his memories and adjusting to a life with Draco, and for all Potter knows there’s a murderer after him.

There’s not. If whoever had taken him and erased his memories had wanted to kill him, they would have. They got what they wanted—Potter off their trail—so why would they need to kill him?

Draco makes and eats toast for breakfast, then cleans his plate and butter knife and mug with a series of spells before he takes the Floo to work.

He can’t hide the fact that something is very, very wrong from Zelda, so Draco ends up tells her the closest thing to the truth that he has yet.

“I had a fight with Harry,” he says. “And I think I need to go away for a little while.”

Zelda puts her hand on his shoulder, and Draco leans into the touch. To his horror, it’s nearly enough to make him cry. He blinks hard a few times and manages to swallow it down.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and he can hear that she means it. “This has got to be so hard for both of you.”

Draco nods. “It is,” he says honestly. “It really is.”

He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear that until she’d said it. Because everyone is so concerned with Potter’s wellbeing—as they should be, he’s missing two years of his life!—but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for Draco simply because the spell didn’t hit him directly. It still disrupted his life. He’s still dealing directly with the fallout.

“Take your time,” Zelda says. “Don’t worry about the shop, okay? We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Thank you,” Draco says.

He wishes he knew how to tell her goodbye. But he’s got no idea how to even start, so he doesn’t.

Instead he goes home and he walks straight past Potter without looking for him. He goes up to his room and closes his door in Potter’s face, and ignores it when Potter knocks.

His back is aching fiercely when he casts the spells around the house that will keep the neighbours from noticing anything amiss, and Draco misses his Potter right now more than ever. He’s not used to going through his transformations alone. He misses Potter’s steady presence at his side and gentle fingers in his hair and how a _Confundo_ makes it all go away.

Draco waits as long as he’s able and then opens the window.

Cool air floods into the room, and Draco’s skin erupts in goosepimples as he disrobes. It’s windy that night, the branches of the elm tree outside his window making strange shapes, backlit by the sodium-yellow of the streetlight across the street. Draco casts a spell over the floor that will clean up the blood he knows he’s going to get on it, then he ties his Portkey around his wrist and tucks his wand beneath his pillow for safekeeping.

Maybe he should have answered the door when Potter knocked. Maybe he should have said goodbye. But then he’d have had to explain. And Potter wouldn’t have accepted it, especially not in so short a time frame, and Draco hasn’t got the energy to argue with him.

In any case, it’s too late now. He thinks briefly of leaving a note, but decides against it. It’s better this way. He’ll simply vanish, and that will be that.

The ache into his back explodes into a sharp itching, and Draco resists for as long as he’s able. He clenches his teeth to keep from screaming, but a long pained groan forces itself out. He can’t help it any longer. He staggers to the window as he twists his arm up behind him, fingernails digging deep into the gashes that never healed this month. His fingers dig in deep, tearing into flesh, and warm blood runs over his hand, trickling over his wrist and down his arm. He has a split second of bristly feathers poking up through the wound, and Draco bites back another scream, and then the pain swells to a blinding crescendo and everything goes fuzzy, and then everything goes dark.

* * * * *

When Draco opens his eyes, he nearly cries. Because he’s alive. He’s still alive. He spent the last two weeks preparing himself for this to be over, and it’s not. It’s not over. He’s still here.

And that means he’s got to go through all of this again next month. The only blood on him is his own. There’s still one other victim, and the murderer is still out there, and it’s not over.

Draco shivers and swallows down his nausea. He doesn’t vomit this morning, small mercies. And when his stomach settles down a bit, he activates the Portkey and lets it carry him away.

He lands heavily on the floor of his flat and stays there for a minutes, just breathing and trying to accept that he’s alive. Merlin, he’s going to have to go home and explain this to Potter. Leaving without so much as a note was so much simpler when Draco didn’t think he’d have to face the consequences for it.

After a while he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom where he’d left a change of clothes and a spare wand on Sunday. It’s chestnut and unicorn hair, and requires a bit more effort to use, but it works for him readily enough. He deals with the bloody wounds on his back and Vanishes the feathers stuck to him. He gets in the shower and scrubs dirt and blood from his skin, then gets out and dries himself off and dresses in grey trousers and a warm black jumper. And then he might as well face the music. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco activates the other Portkey and appears in the living room of his house. Midmorning light slants through the windows and pools on the floor. The knitted afghan is rumpled on one side of the sofa, as if someone had slept under it and then kicked it off when they woke up.

Draco goes up to the library and gets out the enchanted map of London he’d charmed, and activates it. There’s a large glowing dot where the house is—that would be the shoes in Potter’s wardrobe—and then a smaller, dimmer dot over the Ministry. Draco sighs and deactivates the map and puts it away. He can only assume that Potter will be home at the usual time.

He tries to keep himself occupied until then, but doesn’t succeed very well. He tends to his herb garden and chats briefly with Mrs Field before he pleads a headache and goes back inside. He casts a few charms to straighten up the place, and washes all the dishes Potter left in the sink. He makes a cup of tea, forgets about it for thirty minutes, tosses out the overbrewed mess, and then makes another and doesn’t drink it. Since he’s home, he might as well make something nice for dinner, yeah? Something that takes a little more time than he’s usually got. He and Potter will both deserve something nice after the terrible conversation they’re about to have. But he’ll have to go to the store, he hasn’t got anything here, and—

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t realise he’s not alone until someone shouts, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” and Draco’s wand wrenches itself from his hand.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims, whirling around to find Potter in the doorway.

Whatever else he means to say goes flying right out of his head. The naked relief on Potter’s face tugs painfully at Draco’s heart, and then Potter crosses the room in three large strides and crowds Draco up against the wall. His hands come up to cup the sides of Draco’s face, gently, as if he’s something wonderful and precious, and Potter leans his forehead against Draco’s own, and Draco can feel Potter’s breath ghosting across his lips. And Draco wants, he wants so much to lean in just a little bit further.

For a moment, Draco wants this more than breathing. His eyes close and he tips his chin and waits for the soft press of Potter’s lips to his own.

But this isn’t what he wanted. Not like this. Potter doesn’t remember, and ever since he lost his memory, it hasn’t been the same. Aside from that last fight, things between them have been gentle. There’s been a little bit of teasing, mostly on Draco’s part. But there’s been no bickering. No name-calling. No winding each other up for the sheer fun of it.

Because Potter’s been trying so hard to make this work, and Draco’s been trying so hard to make it easy him, and it’s absurd, isn’t it, that they’re both trying so hard to be this thing they never were. They’ve never been _polite_ to each other; that’s not who either of them are.

“I’ve been so worried,” Potter says, and Draco can practically taste the words, they’re so close together.

Pushing Potter away is one of the hardest things Draco’s ever done in his life.

“Draco,” Potter says, and hearing his given name only reinforces that this isn’t real. None of this is real and he can’t do this. “Please.”

Draco shakes his head. “No, not like this,” he says, and it’s horrible being forced to repeat Potter’s own words back to him because Draco how much it hurt when Potter said it to him, and here he is saying the exact same thing: “We can’t.”

“Why not?” Potter demands. “Look, I may never get my memory back, but I—”

“Don’t,” Draco snaps at him.

Potter reaches for him, takes Draco’s hands in his and rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles. Draco yanks his hands free.

“What’s going on?” Potter asks, and Draco has to tell him. He can’t let Potter go on believing this. He never should have lied to him in the first place.

“I…” Draco begins, and his voice cracks. His courage deserts him and when he forces himself to say, “It’s not real,” the words come out scarcely louder than a whisper.

Potter frowns. “What?”

“We… We’re not real, Harry,” Draco repeats.

Potter doesn’t believe him. Of course he doesn’t believe him, because when has Potter _ever_ made anything easy for Draco? Merlin. He knew this whole sham of a relationship was a fucking terrible idea. He never should have let Potter talk him into it. He never should have gone along with any of it, because look where he is now.

Draco thinks about going to get the note Potter had written, explaining the situation. But fuck it. Seeing this the first time was enough to convince Potter.

“What are you doing?” Potter asks as Draco stands up and begins to unbutton his cuffs.

“I have to show you something,” Draco says. He unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall away.

And then he turns to show Potter his back. He knows it’s grotesque. The wounds from today are still fresh, still raw and bloody, and the rest of his back is scarred.

“I’ve been growing wings,” Draco says into the stunned silence that meets his reveal. He can’t bring himself to turn around. He’s afraid of what might be on Potter’s face. “I’ve been growing wings, and you’ve been helping me figure out why.”

He explains the rest. He tells Potter about the curse and how he wakes up covered in blood. He explains about the feathers and how he can’t remember any of it.

“I need to get out,” Potter says abruptly.

“What?”

“I need to get out,” he says again, and then he’s going for the door and he doesn’t stop when Draco calls after him, and then he’s gone.

Draco sighs, then he puts on his shoes and gathers his keys, steps outside, and locks up behind himself. He doesn’t need to consult his map to know where Potter’s gone.

He’s barely left the house when the first raindrops begin to fall. An _Impervius_ keeps him dry as he walks to the park where, sure enough, he finds Potter in the gazebo. He’s sprawled across the floor of it, limbs akimbo and soaking wet. Merlin, how dramatic.

He clears his throat, and Potter sits up, shivering. Draco flicks his wand to get him warm and dry again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound accusatory. He sounds hurt.

“I don’t know,” Draco says, looking away. “I was scared, I guess.”

“That I’d leave?” Potter asks.

Draco’s hands are shaking. “That you’d still want to help,” he says.

* * * * *

He eventually convinces Potter to come home again, where he explains the rest. He shows him all the books they’ve collected, the research they’ve done. He explains about going to look at the other victims and then, well. Draco should have foreseen what happens next.

He wants to bring Weasley and Granger into this, and Draco panics.

“You are not telling them about this, Potter!” he snaps. Good Merlin, Potter just had the last two years of his life erased because of this mess. He can’t put anyone else in danger.

“Why the hell not?” Potter demands. “They’re my—”

“We are not getting anyone else involved,” Draco interrupts. He stares at Potter for a moment, and then turns away because this conversation is over. He feels a touch to his back and it’s hard to tell because of the Numbing Charms, but he thinks it’s over his wounds. “What are you—” he starts, turning back, and then catches sight of Potter’s hand.

“You’re bleeding,” Potter says, holding up his bloody fingers.

Well, fuck.

“It happens,” Draco says.

“It happens?” Potter echoes, and makes a grab for Draco’s elbow when he tries to get away. “Just—Stop moving! I’m getting my friends.”

“I just said—”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse what you just said,” Potter snaps at him, and Draco rolls his eyes.

Potter turns away and goes for the Floo, and it’s clear that he’s made up his mind and won’t be listening to another word out of Draco’s mouth. Which means either Draco can go along with this, or he’ll have to physically stop Potter.

As he doesn’t fancy duelling the Boy Who Lived in their Muggle living room, Draco gives up. He drops down onto the coffee table and puts his head in his hands. He’s done. He’s done arguing, he’s done fighting. And if Potter wants to drag his friends into this, then on his head be it.

And so that’s how, thirty minutes later, Draco finds himself stretched out on his stomach on the sofa, with Granger kneeling on the floor beside him, picking out broken feathers with a pair of tweezers and dropping them one by one into Draco’s favourite mixing bowl. It turns out that the wounds weren’t healing because each month, some of the feathers would break off below the skin, building up until the wounds weren’t healing at all and no potion Draco tried could help.

Draco was unable to clearly see his own back, and that’s his excuse for it. He’s got no idea what Potter’s might be. He was so smug about those Field Injury & Triage classes he’d taken but clearly they hadn’t covered everything.

Well. He still doesn’t hold out much hope that they’ll be able to help all that much, but at least the wounds on his back will heal. At least he’ll spend the next few months until the blood moon more comfortable, this way.

* * * * *

The break in the case comes a week later. Draco and Potter had agreed that it seemed likely that the final victim would be killed on the blood moon. Draco mentions as much to Weasley, who immediately remarks that it doesn’t make sense why a curse and a set of murders based on the legend of the _sun_ crow would culminate on a lunar phenomenon.

When Draco looks into it a bit further, he realises that there’s an upcoming solar eclipse. And oh, that makes much more sense. 

The only problem is it’s just three weeks away. That’s not nearly enough time to do anything about it.

Granger clasps a hand over her mouth when he and Weasley break the news. Draco can’t bear to look at Potter to see how he’s taking this.

“Then it’s a good thing we found who’s behind this whole mess,” Potter says.

And Draco looks up to find Potter looking grim and determined, and Draco can’t help it. Despite everything, a little flutter of hope stirs in his chest.

For all of a minute, Draco believes that they can save him, that this will all be okay, and then they reveal the murderer.

Her name is Lucinda Long. Her parents owned and operated a farm on the border near Wales, and during the War, Death Eaters attacked and burnt the house and greenhouses to the ground, and Lucinda’s parents right along with them.

Draco already knew all of that because he’d been there that night.

He hadn’t wanted to be, but they’d forced him. He hadn’t participated in the destruction or the murders. His father had sent him to stand guard, keeping him safely away from the worst of it, and Draco watched from a distance as the silver-masked figures cast spell after spell, sending huge gulfs of fire sweeping over the property. The flames leapt and twisted, and half a dozen Death Eaters watched it burn, backlit in a wash of orange light with their long black robes flapping in the wind.

“You haven’t done anything,” Bellatrix had scolded when they were getting ready to leave. The smell of smoke clung to her hair and clothes. “We can’t have that, Draco. Everyone must pull his weight.”

She’d grabbed his wand hand, her fingernails cutting into his skin, and wrenched him around until he was pointing his wand up at the sky. She made him cast _Morsmordre_ over the burning ruins of the house. At the time, Draco had been grateful. He’d only made some lights in the sky. He hadn’t actually hurt anyone.

And it’s ironic that if he’d joined in on the mayhem, he’d have been safe. Fire tends to corrupt a magical signature, but the very point of _Morsmordre_ is to linger. Draco’s magical signature would have been well-preserved for Lucinda to analyse.

The other poor Muggle victims might have been random, but Draco certainly wasn’t.

He doesn’t say that out loud. He doesn’t explain any of it, because what good will it do? It won’t help them break the curse, it won’t help them stop Lucinda. And Draco doesn’t want to see how Potter will look at him when he finds out that Draco deserves this.

And so Draco, a coward to the end, doesn’t say a word.

* * * * *

All four of them contribute to developing a working tracking spell, but it’s Granger who makes the breakthrough with it. Since they can’t put magic on Draco, they’re going to have to weave a spell over an area. This was a problem that Potter and Draco had run into before, when they were trying to come up with a way for Potter to find him. The locations he woke up in were scattered too far, and weaving a spell over all of England is impossible.

But with this many victims, they have enough data points that, using the location of the burnt farm as a constant, Granger’s able to untangle an exceedingly complex Arithmancy equation that leaves them with just three options, each one small enough to place a spell over.

Potter is optimistic, but Draco is afraid this won’t work. He’s afraid the tracking spell will fail, that Potter will be unable to find him, that Potter will be too late to save him.

(Even at his most pessimistic, Draco does not allow himself to consider that Potter might be hurt, or even killed. He won’t be. He can’t.)

So Draco does the only thing he can. He withdraws. He shies away from Potter’s touch and he hides in his bedroom each evening. He tries to put space between them now, so that when he’s gone, perhaps it won’t hurt Potter quite so much.

A part of Draco knows that it’s a shit plan. That in trying not to hurt Potter later, he’s hurting Potter now. But he doesn’t know what else to do. And as the days drag on and he draws nearer and nearer his final transformation, he’s too exhausted to care.

On the day of the eclipse, Granger and Weasley join them at the house. Draco doesn’t want them there, but Potter’s still determined that they can save Draco. The ache in his back grows steadily worse, and for a moment Draco is tempted to tell them about how Potter used to cast a Confundus Charm over him on the nights of his transformations, to spare him what pain he could. He thinks about how nice that would be, peaceful and quiet for him. An easy goodbye.

But he doesn’t deserve easy. He resists the pain as long as he’s able, and then when he’s unable to stand it any longer, he turns to Potter.

“It’s starting,” he says, just before the sharp itching in his back explodes into something unbearable.

Draco’s last thought before everything fizzles away in a wash of agony is that he should have let Potter kiss him, just that once.

* * * * *

Draco wakes up screaming.

He’s not in a forest; he doesn’t know where he is. He struggles awake, away from the unidentifiable horrors that burrowed through him in sleep. He drags himself up toward consciousness, trailing nightmares in his wake.

There’s a loud crash and people shouting, and Draco’s magic crackles beneath his skin, rasping like sandpaper, sparking like flint. It lashes out and a window shatters, lashes out again and a chair overturns, and a small, distant part of him knows that he’s safe, knows that he’s in St Mungo’s, knows that he needs to _calm the fuck down_. But that small part of him is drowned out by the shrieking terror, and Draco screams and screams and screams.

The sound of Potter calling out to him in a panic gives him a point to focus on, something to hold him here, to centre himself around. Two Healers are holding him firmly to the bed. Potter is holding his hand and speaking to him.

“It’s okay, Draco,” Potter says, and strokes gentle fingers through Draco’s hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And slowly, slowly, the panic releases him. His heart stops pounding, his breathing slows, and he sags against the mattress, exhausted. Eventually the Healers step back, and Potter keeps talking to him, and Draco’s eyelids are so, so heavy.

He slips back into sleep.

* * * * *

That was the first time, but it wasn’t the last. And each time he woke screaming, Potter was there. He held Draco’s hand and stroked his hair and calms him down until Draco falls back asleep, Potter’s hand wrapped tightly around his.

After a week, Draco’s recovered enough that he’s able to stay awake for several hours at a time. As soon as Potter’s sure he’s lucid, he explains how they found him. And he explains about Lucinda. He tells Draco all about what happened that night. And then finally he tells Draco that he found the spell that’s causing Draco to transform.

“So we can counter it?” Draco asks, confused. Because if they found the spell, that’s good news, isn’t it? He can’t figure out why Potter looks so somber as he’s giving Draco good news. This is good, isn't it? Potter shouldn't look like he's delivering a death sentence.

Potter swallows. “No, Draco. We can't,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

He hands over the sheet of parchment and Draco reads. It’s meant to be a healing spell, cast on patients with severe cases of PTSD. It’s why so many of the Muggle victims were veterans, and once Potter dug into it, he found that all of the rest had a history of trauma. There’s a woman who’d been caught in a house fire and narrowly escaped with her life. One man was in a severe car accident. Two more were victims of assault.

The only way to break the curse, Draco reads, will come from within Draco himself.

“Hermione thinks it will break itself when you’re better,” Potter says like an apology.

Most people afflicted with this spell, Draco reads, end up killing themselves before they recover.

“I’m tired,” Draco says, handing the parchment back to Potter. “I’d like to go to sleep now.”

“Okay,” Potter says as Draco turns over onto his side, facing away. “I’ll be here.”

* * * * *

St Mungo’s can’t do anything more for him, so Potter takes him home.

It feels strange to return here with Potter. He’d tried to argue about it earlier this morning. Potter’s obligation to him is finished. Draco should return to his flat and try his best to deal with this, and Potter is free to return to his own house and his own life.

“Don’t be stupid, Malfoy,” Potter said when Draco had tried to tell him that. He threw Draco's clothes across the room at him. “Now put on your trousers so we can get out of here.”

Draco hadn’t pressed the point when Potter escorted him downstairs and out of St Mungo’s and bundled him into the waiting cab. Potter had run interference when Mrs Field tried to chat, and now standing in the entryway of their home feels like walking into someone else's life. The house is too quiet, the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen echoing oddly in the silence. The flowers in the vase have begun to drop petals all over the table. Draco ought to clean that up. Put in fresh ones.

The sharp clink of Potter dropping his keys into the bowl on the table startles Draco from his thoughts.

“Potter,” he begins, trying again to talk some sense into him.

“Go on and sit down,” Potter says, talking over him. “I’ll make you some tea. You’re probably exhausted.”

“Potter,” Draco says again. “We need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Potter tells him. “I said I’d be here, so I am.”

“So, what. You’re going to give up your life for me indefinitely?”

“It’s not indefinitely,” Potter says. “It’s just until you’re better.”

“And Merlin knows how long that will take,” Draco says. _And Merlin knows whether it will even happen at all_ , he doesn’t add. “You don’t owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Potter says very seriously. “I’m not here out of obligation, Malfoy. After everything we’ve been through, haven’t you figured that out yet?”

And then he turns and goes into the kitchen. Draco can hear him clattering about with the kettle. And he’s tired, he’s so tired and he doesn’t want to argue. Truthfully, bundling himself up in the afghan on the sofa sounds rather nice, a small and tempting comfort. So Draco does as Potter says.

The afternoon passes slowly. Potter watches a football match on the telly, and Draco dozes beside him. Potter wakes him up for dinner, and then it’s time for bed.

Tucked beneath his own sheets and blankets, with the familiar shadows of his darkened room around him, Draco has no problem falling asleep, but barely two hours later he wakes up screaming. Potter comes rushing in and calms him down, and casts Silencing Charms around Draco’s room so that the second and third times he wakes up screaming no-one will here. In the morning Mrs Field asks Potter what had happened, and the second night Potter tells Draco to sleep with him.

“What?” Draco asks blankly. He’d spent another afternoon dozing lightly on the sofa, and his brain still feels muddled.

“It makes sense,” Potter insists. He steers Draco into his room and nudges at him until he gets into Potter’s bed. “It’ll be easier if you’re already here when you wake me up. And it’s not as if we haven’t shared a bed before, yeah?”

If anything, that should be a point for why they _shouldn’t_ do it.

But Draco’s too exhausted to keep arguing about what a terrible fucking idea this is. Because Potter’s bed is warm and it smells like him, and Potter slides in and spoons up behind him to hold him tight. And when Draco wakes up screaming from nightmares a few hours later, it takes Potter much less time to calm him down again. 

This is everything he wanted, and it’s not how he wanted it at all. They're in love, and Draco spends each night in Potter's bed, and nothing can ever, ever happen. Because it’s not fair to Potter, is it? Even this isn't fair to Potter. He shouldn’t have to give up everything for Draco like this. Draco had gone to him in the hope that Potter could help him break his curse. He’s already gone above and beyond what Draco had expected of him.

And frankly, if it comes down to Draco saving himself? Well. Draco hasn’t got much faith in that happening. He knows himself. He’s not strong. The description of his curse was very clear that most of the people upon whom it had been cast hadn’t been able to break it. They continue to transform, month after month after month, until it eventually drives them mad and they kill themselves.

And Draco can’t make Potter watch that happen to him. He won’t. Potter deserves so much more than that.

Draco takes the two weeks until his next transformation to enjoy this. He makes Potter dinner and spends quiet evenings on the sofa with him. At night he wraps himself in soft blankets and falls asleep to the steady sound of Potter breathing beside him.

And then on the next transformation, Draco does the bravest thing he can do.

He leaves for good.

* * * * *

This is familiar. Draco wakes up naked in a forest, bleeding from his back. He shivers, throws up, and then he activates his Portkey.

It takes him to the flat above his shop, where he cleans himself up and changes into proper wizarding robes for the first time in months. Then he goes downstairs and tells Zelda that he's sick and needs to leave her in charge of the shop for a while. He hands her the papers he’d drawn up and explains that should he not recover from his illness, the shop is hers. Zelda very carefully reads over the entire document, her mouth firming into a thin line.

When she finishes, she looks him straight in the eye and tears the papers right in half.

“I appreciate that you trust me with your apothecary,” she says, “but this isn’t necessary. You’re going to break the curse. You’re going to be a pain in my arse for years to come.” Her eyes are shining with tears and her chin wobbles alarmingly, but she doesn’t quite cry. “But I’ll watch the shop for you in the meantime. Don’t worry about anything.”

“I’m not,” he tells her. “I know it’s in good hands.”

And then he goes home to the Manor, where he’ll stay until he breaks this curse or dies trying.

His parents are surprised to see him, and when Draco explains about the curse, that surprise turns to shock and horror. Narcissa had holds him and cries, and when she finally releases him, Lucius had sweeps him up in a desperate hug. Draco can't remember the last time his father had hugged him. As with everything else, Draco wishes it were happening for any other reason than this.

“Draco,” Lucius finally says. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

And Draco just shakes his head, because he doesn’t have an answer to that. He should have told them from the very beginning. He should have told them everything.

“Well,” says Narcissa briskly. She dabs here eyes dry with a handkerchief and squares her shoulders. “No matter. We know about it now, and we’ll figure out how to break the curse.”

She looks strong and determined, and Draco is abruptly reminded that this is the woman who dared to defy the Dark Lord for his sake. There is nothing she won’t do for him, and Draco doesn’t yet know how the curse will break, but in this moment he feels more certain than ever that it _will_.

“All right,” he says. “Let's get started, then.”

After all, he’s got a life to get back to.

 

 

 

 

EPILOGUE:

 

It takes six months to break the curse, and in the end, he isn’t even sure how it happened, or why. It might've been one of the endless counter-curses his mother and father tried to apply to it, or it might've been the expensive Mind Healer who's been working extensively with Draco. It might have been something else entirely, something deeper from within himself. All he knows is that one full moon, he doesn’t transform. He goes weak-kneed and giddy with relief, and rushes straight to his parents, and even as they embrace him, all Draco can think is that now he's free to return to Potter. It's been so hard to be without him. He hadn't realised how much a part of his life Potter had become until Draco had abruptly cut him out of it. So many times over the past months, he's been tempted to owl Potter. But from his understanding of the curse, this was something Draco had to do for himself. As much as he missed Potter, he couldn't let Potter become the reason for his recovery.

As much as he wants to go rushing off to Potter, he makes himself wait until the next full moon, just to be sure. And when he doesn’t transform a second time, he can't wait another moment. He takes a deep breath, and Apparates.

He's enormously reassured to find that Potter still lives in their home but even so, Draco can’t quite bring himself to go inside. He’s still got his keys, and Muggle locks aren’t enough to keep a wizard out. But he's been gone for a long time, long enough that going into the house would feel like overstepping. As eager as Draco is to see him again, Potter should have a choice about it, too. So instead Draco goes down to the park nearby. He sits down in the gazebo, the weather worn wood of the bench creaking softly as he settles his weight upon it.

Something rustles in the treetops, and Draco looks, but can’t make out anything through the darkness. He whistles, high and sharp. Feathers rustle, and a crow swoops down and lands on the railing. It looks at him, and Draco offers his hand.

“Come on,” he says. “Up you get.”

The crow hops onto his hand, tips its head to regard him with one beady black eye.

“Go find Harry,” he tells it. “Bring him back here.”

The crow launches itself from his hand, wings rustling sharply as it takes flight. Draco watches it sail off into the night, illuminated briefly in the light of a streetlamp, and then the darkness swallows it up.

Then he lets out a slow breath, and he settles back to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Help us promote this fic on **tumblr** by liking and reblogging:
> 
> [fic link](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/141259303579) | [quote from chapter 1](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/141272326640) | [quote from chapter 5](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/141329108378) | [quote from chapter 10](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/141389774639) | [quote from chapter 12](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/141449207365)
> 
> * * *
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